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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29436348">Becoming St. Trinians</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftlow/pseuds/ftlow'>ftlow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Creating Military Intelligence: Group 7 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>St Trinian's (2007 2009)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:48:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>53,696</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29436348</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftlow/pseuds/ftlow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>How did Kelly Jones, intelligent, world-wise and attractive, become a St. Trinian's student? How did Polly, booksmart and studious, end up at the worst school in the country? And how did their arrival change the school from pure anarchy to anarchy with a purpose, from chaos to an endgame?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Creating Military Intelligence: Group 7 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2162346</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fandoms Challenge 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Earliest Memories</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>“Challenge Yourself" Week Three - write for a fandom you read, but have never written for.<br/>The first St. Trinian’s film is funny for kids and for adults. I loved rewatching it and being a child again - but from an adult perspective, the characters are pretty fascinating. I’m not a huge fan of the second film but it does provide a story for where Kelly goes - and that’s the basis for this whole series.<br/>Thanks to the Small/Medium Fandoms, Pool Noodles, Dinghies, and Tugboats Facebook group for starting the challenge and making me write this one!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What about Clara?”</p><p>“No.” The girl shook her head. “I don’t want to choose one.”</p><p>She was certainly stubborn for a six year old - if indeed she was six. The home’s manager sighed. </p><p>“Sweetheart, we can’t keep calling you ‘sweetheart’ forever. And the other children won’t call you that. You’d make friends if you just chose a name.” She said in her London accent. It sounded melodious and familiar in a way the constantly-changing volunteers’ never did.</p><p>Long, wavy black hair shimmered as its owner shook her head mutely. The adult before her threw her hands up in defeat and sat back in her chair, looking over her head to the volunteer hovering in the doorway. </p><p>“Keep trying, Debbie.” She said with a shrug. “We can’t do anything else.”</p><p>The child understood her unspoken dismissal, recognising that the adults had gone back to doing their usual - talking about her like she wasn’t stood right there. She turned and walked out of the office, leading Debbie back to the dorms. She sighed as she sat herself on her thin mattress, heels resting on the edge of the cardboard box that held most of her belongings, bowed from all the times her feet had pressed there before.</p><p>Debbie sank down quietly beside her, uninvited. The girl pushed down her irritation at the intrusion.</p><p>“Doesn’t it bother you, sweetheart?” Debbie asked quietly. “Doesn’t it feel like you’re missing out?”</p><p>The girl stared out the window, past all the other beds, to where all the other girls were laughing in the yard. Charlotte and Molly were holding either end of the jump rope, and Tamsin was hopping over it, faster and faster. Eleanor was drawing a hopscotch, and tiny little Tamara was already hopping and jumping up it. Vanessa was standing on her head, and Yasmin and Rea were trying - unsuccessfully - to do the same. The grass was browner than normal; the summer had been hot. These were all facts, truths, and the girl wasn’t entirely sure what Debbie meant by her question, because she wasn’t sure what the answer was supposed to be. Was she missing out? Did it bother her?</p><p>She shrugged, eventually. “Why didn’t you all just name me?” She asked quietly. Tamsin tripped, the rope tangling around her feet, and the girls were all laughing, it was visible in their faces but from inside they couldn’t hear anything.</p><p>“I don’t know. I think they thought you might eventually tell us your name. A familiar word you heard a lot, or something. You were babbling when you came to your first placement, so it makes sense that you might have picked it up.”</p><p>She sighed. Clearly she hadn’t. She had no history, no identity outside of these walls - or even within them, really. It was something she didn’t know she was missing, at that young age. She just knew that something was.</p><p>“I’m taking Tamara to her first service tomorrow morning, sweetheart. If you want to come, you’re more than welcome. Even if we don’t know who you are, He does. And maybe while you’re there you’ll hear a name you like enough to choose it.”</p><p>The girl sighed, tearing her eyes from the window. “Maybe.” She replied cryptically, and turned her back on Debbie, stretching out on her bed.</p>
<hr/><p>“Peace be with you.” <br/>
“Peace be with you.”<br/>
“Peace be with you.”</p><p>Polly closed her eyes as the familiar phrase echoed softly around the cavernous space, repeated in hundreds of voices, softly exchanged with neighbours. Tucked onto a stone shelf behind one of the gargantuan pillars, she twirled one of her long red plaits around her finger, listening as the cathedral fell gradually silent. </p><p>The service finally ended, dragging along in her sense of time, warped as only a five-year-old’s can be. She stretched languidly and peeped out from her hiding place, watching as everyone gathered at the tea and coffee stand. Mr Rivers, as usual, was leaning heavily on his cane as he fished around for biscuits and stepped away, holding four, without putting any donations in the bucket.</p><p>“There you are. I wondered where you’d got to.” Her father’s fond voice met her ears as he held out his hand for her to take. “You really shouldn’t sit up there though, love. Some would think it disrespectful.” He tugged lightly at his dog collar. “Come.” He scooped her down and deposited her on the stone floor beside him, and began to walk.</p><p>“Not as bad as walking over dead people,” Polly pointed out, waving her hand at the engraved stones they were stepping all over. </p><p>“They’re just memorial stones,” Her father assured her gently, in that mild way priests seem to have. </p><p>“Then why did the floor subside?” Polly returned, knowledge beyond her years clear in her obvious challenge. </p><p>Her mother approached from the vestibule, where she’d clearly just finished her duties. Her choral robe was still in place, and billowed satisfyingly around her. </p><p>“What did you think to the new rendition, Pol?” She asked, resting her hand on her daughter’s strawberry blonde head. </p><p>“Better. But one of your mezzo-sopranos is completely off-key.” Polly leaned her head on her mother’s thigh and sighed. “I wish I could sing.”</p><p>Her mother chuckled. “So do I, love. Your flute is coming along nicely, though; your fingers are fast. Perhaps we can get you on the organ in a few years.” She tugged on a plait just as Polly herself had done during the service. “Come. Time for us to do our duties.”</p><p>They all headed, a cohesive family unit, to the congregation surrounding the tea and biscuits, pouring drinks for everyone who was lacking, moving around one another in well-practised synchronisation. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Becoming Kelly Jones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Sweetheart, you’re running late for class.”</p><p>“It’s just next door,” The young girl replied, rolling her eyes.</p><p>“Yes, and it’s due to start any moment.” Rachel chivvied her in through the wooden door, pulling it closed behind her.</p><p>The register was already under way. They’d all heard it many times, even those who didn’t attend lessons, because it was taken every day at breakfast to make sure they’d all stayed overnight. Only once had a girl run away, and she soon came back. </p><p>But this was the first time, for two of them, that they were hearing the register in the classroom. Some names were missing - everyone under seven, who was too young to start proper learning.</p><p>“Sally.”</p><p>“Here, miss.”</p><p>The home’s manager, Mrs Colley, smiled down at Sally before moving on.</p><p>“Gemma.”</p><p>“Here, miss.”</p><p>“Jemima.”</p><p>“Here, miss.”</p><p>“Daisy.”</p><p>“Here, miss.”</p><p>“Chastity.”</p><p>“Here, miss.”</p><p>“Ellie.”</p><p>“Here, miss.”</p><p>“Lucy.”</p><p>“Here, miss.”</p><p>“Sweetheart.”</p><p>She clenched her teeth. As an endearment, it wasn’t so bad. It sounded stupid as a name, though. “Here, miss.” She finally replied, quietly. The room was silent, but the others were all looking at her. She could feel it.</p><p>“Victoria.”</p><p>“Here, miss.”</p><p>“Anne.”</p><p>“Here, miss.”</p>
<hr/><p>After morning classes, where she’d learned that all the other students could spell their names and she could spell most words she heard if they weren’t too complicated, she returned to the classroom early. Mrs Colley was already there.</p><p>“Do you have to include me on the register?” She asked without preamble. “You can see whether I’m here.”</p><p>The manager jumped, and looked up. “You made me jump, sweetheart,” She put a hand to her chest theatrically. “You do move quietly.” She regarded her for a second. “You know it would be much easier if you just chose a name.”</p><p>She shook her dark waves stubbornly. Mrs Colley sighed. </p><p>“I’ll take you off the register,” She agreed, and turned away.</p><p>Smiling, she sat back at the desk she’d chosen; the back right-hand corner, closest to the door and furthest from the teacher, and waited.</p>
<hr/><p>It took from September until Christmas for everyone to be on the same page - literally - with reading. She found it very dull, because she’d learned a long time ago; what else was she to do but read, when the other girls were playing? Writing, though, that was a whole different story, and making the shapes of letters and words was a fascinating process to her. It took only a few lessons to realise that her handwriting mimicked Mrs Colley’s. </p><p>“It’s very neat, sweetheart. But you don’t have to copy mine exactly.” The manager assured her, and the girl was stumped. </p><p>“So how am I supposed to do it?” She asked, genuinely lost.</p><p>Mrs Colley pushed a book towards her. “Try a sentence out of there, in your own style.”</p><p>But she couldn’t. She copied the book’s typography and produced a short sentence that looked like it had been tapped out on a typewriter.</p><p>Her handwriting was as confused about its identity as the rest of her.</p>
<hr/><p>The following summer, she spent a lot of time in the classroom, even though lessons were on a four-week break. She’d been keeping a tally of birthdays, and since she’d started it at Christmas, when her numeracy and literacy were good enough, eight of the fifteen residents of the orphanage had celebrated a birthday. She was trying to create a calendar based on what she knew of the days of the week, and the months, but she couldn’t get it to add up properly.</p><p>“Sweetheart? You ought to be enjoying the sunshine.” Rachel opened the door a little wider. “Come on.” She held out her hand.</p><p>The girl shook her head. “I’m working on something.” She told her without looking up. Rachel sighed and padded closer, squinting at the list of scribbles and squiggles. </p><p>Picking up a pencil, she crossed out “August - 32” and wrote “31”. Then she circled “Febary”, corrected the spelling, and wrote “28, or 29 in a leap year (the same year as the olympics)” beside it. </p><p>The girl stared hard at the break in the pattern, and then called after her, “Thanks!”</p>
<hr/><p>She moved to a new home at the end of the summer, packing all her belongings into her box and dutifully tucking it under her newest bed, just like the last three that she remembered vaguely. The classes here were different - they were joint with another home, and it was the first time she’d met anyone who she didn’t live with. But it didn’t make her any more keen to join a friendship group.</p><p>By Christmas, she’d found her feet and the excitement from starting classes again had worn off. Lessons were getting dull. She’d fallen back into her old pattern of spending all her spare time reading, listening to music, observing the other girls, and making things. <br/>
They learned the very basics of electricity while putting up the Christmas lights, but she’d taken the broken plug socket to pieces and found the broken connection three weeks before. It worked now.</p><p>They’d been reading some government-approved books with mostly pictures in about stupid adventures and a glowing key, but she had been enjoying Roald Dahl and Enid Blyton for six months now.</p><p>They’d looked at different materials and their uses, and their characteristics - hard, soft, strong, bendy, brittle, conductive or insulating - but she’d already experimented with various materials she’d found in the shed to fix one of the more uncomfortable broken slats on her bed, and to make a stand for the toaster to stop it burning the worktop.</p><p>They’d learned about the weather, but she already knew about it from hours spent watching the surprise on everyone’s faces when the mornings were foggy, even though the conditions the day before a foggy daybreak were always the same.</p><p>They’d learned about life cycles, even though she’d seen countless duck pairs becoming families in spring, nesting in the corner of their garden space at her last home, and in the reeds surrounding the pond opposite this one. She’d counted chrysales each year, watching caterpillars crawl inside and fly away afterwards; she had a blurry memory from a different home of carefully standing an empty cereal box around one particularly vulnerable one in the garden.</p><p>They’d learned about morals and rights and wrongs, but she’d grown up in these places, with the same rules every time, and it was nothing new. She couldn’t help but wonder what was out there, and whether the rules were different.</p>
<hr/><p>At Christmas, she pulled her calendar out again. It would have been finished now, if she’d stayed; it had seen a full year since the first time she’d filled a birthday in. Her handwriting was still changeable, but she’d settled into a bit of a habit and developed her own sort of style. Mostly, it was just her favourite way of writing each letter, making her handwriting a confused mess of capitals and lowercase, italics and not, all mashed together. She liked the randomness.</p><p>“Sweetheart? Christmas dinner is starting soon.” One of the volunteers, an older lady with grey hair whose name was Sue, stuck her head into the dorm room. </p><p>She didn’t hear her; she was carefully studying the sheet, trying to remember what each girl had done for her birthday. A picnic in August, bowling in October, a shopping trip in May… some cherished memories of the outside world she found so fascinating. She was wondering where the other girls’ birthdays would have fitted, where all these new housemates fitted. Whether their characters were defined by their position on this strange chart. </p><p>“Sweetheart?” Sue sat beside her on the bed, and she jumped. “Alright?”</p><p>She didn’t mean to reply, but, taken by surprise, she blurted, “Why don’t I have a birthday?”</p><p>Sue glanced at the sheet of paper and smiled sadly. “We all have a birthday, sweetheart. We just don’t know when yours is.”</p><p>She stared down at the paper, wondering which of the blank squares was hers, or if one of the others had a birthday on her birthday. Maybe she’d been celebrating it this whole time without realising.</p><p>“No one knows?”</p><p>Sue shook her head. “Would you like to pick a date?”</p><p>She stared at Sue, the many offers of choosing a name echoing around her head, and clenched her teeth angrily. “No.” She said flatly, and tucked the paper out of sight in the cardboard box under her feet. She stood and brushed herself down, wiping away imaginary dust and muck. “Did you say dinner was ready?”</p><p>Sue sighed and stood up. “I did,” she agreed, and held out her hand. The girl ignored it.</p>
<hr/><p>After Christmas, someone started coming in to give music lessons and someone else to teach the girls French. She excelled at both, and enjoyed them much more than other classes because she couldn’t learn them so easily by tinkering with things around her. </p><p>By February, the music teacher was giving her piano lessons after the usual classes, and the French teacher was also teaching her some Arabic, which he - for some reason - was fluent in. He was fascinated by her ability to copy the shapes so easily, and accept reading backwards as the new normal. None of the other girls enjoyed French as much, although a couple were very good; but tiny little Tracy was learning the violin and Rita, unexpectedly, the saxophone. The music teacher was doing more and more hours, and had started leaving instruments behind.</p><p>When not in class, at meals, or simply watching what was going on, she was practicing French or Arabic, or playing on the upright piano in the once-box-room that now housed guitars, violins, flutes, clarinets, bongos, maracas, rainsticks, electric keyboards, chairs and a tape/CD player. </p>
<hr/><p>When lessons concluded, she asked this new home’s manager what they were for. </p><p>“Why are we doing them?”</p><p>“Because we have to, sweetheart.”</p><p>“But…why?”</p><p>Mrs Adams sighed. “Because when you’re older and you need a job, you have to have qualifications. So they’ll test you on some of these things.”</p><p>She considered that for a moment. “But what does…what does…water displacement have to do with…” she struggled for an example of a job.</p><p>“I know, sweetheart. Some of it seems pointless. But you’ll thank us when you do your exams at high school.”</p><p>She frowned. “What sorts of jobs are there?”</p><p>She’d read lots of books, of course. But it was hard to imagine the job of a car salesman when she didn’t understand the differences between cars, or a military career when she didn’t know anything about the military.</p><p>Mrs Adams frowned. It sometimes surprised her just how sheltered the girls were, but she supposed their whole lives were in the system. </p><p>Orphans were penniless and days out were rare.</p><p>“Perhaps a careers day, sweetheart? Out and about.”</p><p>The shy nod and blinding smile was all she needed to know.</p>
<hr/><p>The trip happened just a month later. The girls walked, two by two, with Mrs Adams at the front and Sue and another volunteer at the back. She walked alone, behind all the pairs of girls but in front of Sue and her friend, who were chattering about some restaurant.</p><p>They walked from the house, down the drive, and up the footpath to the bus station. They weren’t far from town - they were all just too young to go there alone. She didn’t understand that. She’d be happy to go by herself, as often as possible.</p><p>They all clambered onto a bus and found seats, and Mrs Adams had the bus driver introduce himself, explain a bit about his job and how much he earned, and wave to them all before they pulled away.</p><p><em>Job 1: bus driver. Not sure without learning to drive, but might be too many people involved</em>. She wrote surreptitiously in her notebook.</p><p>They got off the bus in the town centre and walked two by two again, snaking through the crowds to the bank. “Now, girls, I need to withdraw some money for our visit. Come in, be quiet, and don’t get too close to the other adults in here. It’s a private place.” </p><p>Mrs Adams led them all inside and they crowded around the counter, all clamouring to see what was going on. She lifted little Tracy - who was due to start lessons that September - onto her shoulders for a better view. The bank teller waved awkwardly to them all and spoke about handling money all day and looking after people’s earnings. The little speaker in the glass screen made his voice sound tinny and strange.</p><p><em>Job 2: bank person. Seems dull and too stationary. Like the secrecy though</em>, she wrote once she’d hoisted Tracy down, writing wobbling as they walked on.</p><p>The girls enjoyed their first ever trip to the cinema that morning. Toy Story was childish and silly, in her opinion, but there were a couple of funny bits. The big screen and comfy seats made a nice change, though. They didn’t watch many films back home.</p><p>“So, girls, who can think of some jobs relating to that experience?” Mrs Adams called as the lights came back on.</p><p><em>Job 3: cinema cleaner, ticket sales. All in one place. Lots of people to deal with</em>. She scribbled as the ideas were thrown around, and a cinema cleaner moved along the row behind her, collecting rubbish noisily.</p><p><em>Job 4: aminat - anina- animator.</em> It took her three tries to spell it. <em>Making stuff on the screen move. Sounds like computers, not familiar with that.</em></p><p><em>Job 5: voice actor. Giving voices to the characters. Basically just reading out loud with feeling. Would rather act properly, use body language too</em>. She knew from watching the other girls that so much of everything was in how you stood while speaking, how you moved and presented yourself, not just the words. Voice acting sounded like a silly job to her, but she supposed it must be alright if people did it. It just wasn’t for her.</p><p><em>Job 6: real actor. Better than voice acting but people would know you. Too public.</em> She didn’t like the idea of fame. Plus a nameless actor couldn’t be on the credits. She added the last with a self-deprecating smile.</p><p><em>Job 7: advertising.</em> The conversation was flowing around her as she hurried to keep up. <em>I guess advertising and business sounds interesting, I’m just not that bothered about money.</em></p><p><em>Job 8: drawing for films. Art would need to hugely improve for that.</em> Bizarrely, while she could copy handwriting styles and line patterns, actually drawing was hard for her. She could get the shape, but the shading and realism was impossible. It just never looked quite right. And adding colour - what a nightmare.</p><p>
  <em>Job 9: music for films. Never tried writing music… that could be one to look into.</em>
</p><p>The conversation was ending, she could feel it. Some of the girls were tailing off mid sentence, and Mrs Adams had stopped prompting them.</p><p>“That should do us for in here,” She said finally, standing, business-like. </p><p>The rest of the day included bowling, a picnic in a nature reserve, a visit to the town library, a short turn around a supermarket, a trip to the hairdressers, a peek in a launderette, and a chat with a local farmer.</p><p>By the time they returned home, her jobs list was incredibly long and a few of them appealed to her. None of them involved working with people; they were outdoors or musical, mostly, although she found she wanted to go back to the hairdressers, to actually have her hair cut.</p><p>“So, sweetheart. Did anything take your fancy?”</p><p>She shook her head. “Not really. It was a really good day, but not for jobs. But that can’t be it, right? I mean, we’re learning languages. None of those jobs need languages. And science, and geography, and history. What are they all for?”</p><p>Mrs Adams sighed. “You’ll see. All in good time.”</p>
<hr/><p>The weekend after the first week back to lessons, her feet were itchy. She couldn’t rest, knowing that she’d just spent a week learning about maps and finding the UK on one, and how plants grow, and what happens when metal is squashed versus play-doh, when there was a whole world waiting to be explored.</p><p>She went out into the yard with the others on Saturday morning, and followed the wall down to where the ducks nested in the bushes in spring. She climbed a tree and sat in the usual fork, watching them all from above. They’d all celebrated two birthdays since she made her calendar, and so had the other girls from her other homes. She didn’t even know how many. They were all changing. Growing up.</p><p>She glanced to her right and sighed. <em>Why not.</em></p><p>She slid onto the wall, and from there, it was a six-foot drop to the street on the other side. With some wriggling, she maneouvred to hanging from her fingers, and let go. It wasn’t far at all, really. A much easier landing than jumping from the tree to the garden floor like she usually did.</p><p>She brushed herself down and began to walk.</p>
<hr/><p>After that first adventure, in which she simply saw the sights, head swivelling from side to side as she took in the shops, streets, people and houses surrounding her, she escaped regularly. She’d sneaked back in during dinner the first time, and afterwards, she strung a rope around the tree and over the wall, hiding it expertly between the overlapping branches. She could use it to pull herself up the wall, feet braced on the brickwork. It was too easy, really.</p><p>She found a swimming pool, and sports pitches. She found restaurants and cafes and bars, dark smoky ones filled with joviality in the evenings and sad, pain-filled eyes during the day. She found shops selling everything from food to toys to books to clothes, and hairdressers, and jewellers. She found buskers, and sat for hours listening to a flautist outside a church. She found a subway under the road, learned pedestrian crossings, and discovered trains.</p><p>She learned more about the world in those illegal days out than in every lesson she’d ever attended.</p><p>Then Mrs Adams, on her way out of the door, caught her slipping into the garden alley to the rope. And she was moved again.</p><p>Her new home was miles away, and the kids were even less friendly than in the others. There was no French teacher, no more Arabic, and very little music on the lessons syllabus. </p><p>But it was in a town, and she had lost interest in the rules and gained a penchant for sneaking around, and so she loved it purely for its surroundings. </p><p>Her favourite part of the outside world was Christmas, when the town was lit with fairy lights and carol singers filled the streets. Every shop had a Christmas display and the air was biting cold. She’d always liked Christmas, because she got to celebrate it too; it was universal in a way birthdays weren’t. And now it seemed the big wide world loved it just as much.</p><p>In February, while nosing around her latest favourite discovery - a music shop, selling books of music, instruments, and advice - she heard an unfamiliar word. </p><p>“Shit!”</p><p>She startled at the venom in it, and crept towards the back, to where the shop’s owner - she’d spoken to him before - was cradling a bleeding hand.</p><p>“What did you say?” She asked curiously.</p><p>He jumped badly, and then laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you were there. Don’t repeat it, it’s a bad word!”</p><p>She smiled serenely at him, storing the information away. </p><p>“Are you alright?” She asked, gesturing. </p><p>“Yes, fine. Just some trouble with this shelf, is all.” He gestured to a wonky shelf and she saw the tools sat atop it. A screwdriver, a drill. There was also a tiny guitar with a string half-off.</p><p>“Let me help.” She reached for the guitar and laid it reverently on the desk, then climbed up past it and swiped the screwdriver.</p><p>“Oh, I don’t think so, missy.” The owner scooped up the drill hurriedly. “You must be what, eight?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I’m good at shelves though. And I don’t need that. There’s already a hole here, from the clock you used to have hung there. It’s in the perfect place, if the other end of the shelf is where you want it.”</p><p>She gripped the bracket and began to methodically unscrew the screw on the lower side.</p><p>A few minutes later, the shelf was level, and the ugly hole that was three inches too low was covered by an artful arrangement of loose music leaves held in place with blue-tac. She’d been right about the position of the clock hole; it was perfect.</p><p>The owner was staring at her, still holding his drill. She diplomatically turned off the plug before he squeezed it any harder and did himself any more damage.</p><p>“So are you actually Mr Musicbox, or is that just a nickname?” She asked innocently. </p><p>“I, er…no. My name’s Rick.” He put the drill down and held out his hand. She stared at it blankly and looked back at him, and he laughed. “You shake it. Look.” He reached for her opposite hand and shook it. “And introduce yourself.”</p><p>She swallowed thickly. “I, er. I don’t have a name.”</p><p>He frowned. “We all have names, sweetheart.”</p><p>She stared at him accusingly. “Well, everyone just calls me ‘sweetheart’, like you just did.” She turned to leave.</p><p>“Wait!” He called.</p><p>She turned and stared defiantly at him. </p><p>“Thanks. For that.” He gestured at the shelf. “Look, you’ve been in here before. Why do you keep coming back?”</p><p>She softened. “I like music.” She shrugged. “It’s nice, seeing it somewhere other than at home, and this new home doesn’t have a piano.” She wandered over to the baby grand that took pride of place in the centre of the shop, and hesitated. “Can I?”</p><p>He nodded, intrigued, and she lifted the lid from the keys, sat on the stool with a sigh, and picked a few keys to press. She did it again, and then again, faster, and faster, and then she was playing a simple version of the Comptine d’un autre ete, feeling the music flow through her like she always did.</p><p>It felt like home.</p><p>The applause at the end of the song brought her back to earth and she looked up, to where the shopkeeper was staring at her, open-mouthed. </p><p>“Where did you learn that?” He asked, astounded. </p><p>“Piano? I had lessons for about a year, and stopped when I moved here in October.”</p><p>“A year.” He repeated blankly, and then shook his head. “No, I meant the song.”</p><p>She shrugged. “My old French teacher showed us a film called Amelie. It’s off that.”</p><p>“And you’ve learned it?”</p><p>“I haven’t played it before today.” She was confused now. “Why, wasn’t it right?”</p><p>He laughed. “It was wonderful. And you’re a gifted girl.”</p><p>An hour later, she was back at home, with money in her pocket and the promise that whenever she came in and played, she’d get twenty percent of anything any customers spent. She’d bartered him up from ten, and she couldn’t wait to get started.</p>
<hr/><p>For a year, she carried on like this. She sat through lessons, learning pointless things, and spent her spare time observing people and finding ways to learn with her hands. She didn’t sleep at all some nights, and it wasn’t uncommon to find the toaster in pieces by morning, or a bookcase completely rearranged and the shelf spacings adjusted accordingly. And whenever she was able to get out without being noticed on a Saturday or Sunday, she ran through the streets to the Musicbox and played piano for hours, drawing an audience and collecting the pennies they left in the pot on the counter. </p><p>With that money and the twenty percent promised, she saved up a fair amount. She had no idea what she’d do with it, but she liked having it there, and knowing that she’d earned it. </p>
<hr/><p>One Saturday in March, though, a volunteer by the name of Kayleigh happened to pass by the Musicbox. As soon as she saw her, she knew she was in trouble, but she finished her song anyway.</p><p>An elderly woman pressed forward through the crowd and wrung her hands, her wrinkled skin rough and papery. “You play beautifully, my dear. You remind me so much of my sister when we were both your age. I so wish she could hear you play,” She croaked, and her eyes behind her glasses were filled with tears. </p><p>Seeing Kayleigh pressing closer, she swallowed and squeezed those hands, somehow knowing this woman’s sister was dead and feeling, for the first time in her memory, like she might cry without any injury, illness or pain to cry over. </p><p>“What was her name?” She asked desperately, and the woman smiled, pulling one hand away to dab at her eyes with a handkerchief she produced from somewhere.</p><p>“Kelly. Her name was Kelly,” she told her in that strange, almost constricted voice.</p><p>Kayleigh arrived and her expression was full of disapproval and disappointment. “You shouldn’t be here, sweetheart.” She yanked her up by the elbow and began marching out of the shop. She threw a helpless, apologetic glance over her shoulder to Rick, who gathered up her tips and presented them to the old lady.</p><p>“What are you doing out here on your own?” Kayleigh cried as they entered a deserted street and she let go her tight grip on her elbow. </p><p>“Learning!” she snapped, suddenly tired of the bubble she’d grown up in. Rick, the Musicbox, the old lady she’d just met - she’d learned more in the last year about the world than any of her placements, any of the staff, had ever taught her, no matter how kind they’d been and how good their intentions.</p><p>Kayleigh just shook her head sadly. “You’ve been doing this a lot, haven’t you?” She asked. “You’ve been so elusive since you arrived. But if I’d known you’d been actually going out…”</p><p>“What’s wrong with being out here?”</p><p>“Alone? Everything!” Kayleigh caught herself before she shouted any more, and the girl was smiling.</p><p>“See. I’ve grown up so much in the last year, you argue with me like I’m an adult now.” She turned away and walked on.</p>
<hr/><p>This home’s manager, a stern-faced balding man called Mr Greene, sighed. </p><p>“Sweetheart, I don’t deny how much you’ve learned, but there are rules for a reason.”</p><p>“And you’ve yet to give me a good one.” She challenged coldly. </p><p>“There aren’t always good reasons. That’s the point of rules. You follow them even when they don’t seem logical.”</p><p>“But why?”</p><p>There was a silence as Kayleigh and Mr Greene looked despairingly at one another.</p><p>“The why is irrelevant, sweetheart.” Kayleigh tried gently, but she was having none of it.</p><p>“Irrelevant like all the real life things I’ve learned in the last year, or irrelevant like some of the lessons we’ve had here? Irrelevant like music, which is the only thing besides languages that I’ve excelled at but which seems to have very little application in your world or this home? Irrelevant like my name, or my birthday? I break all the rules by even existing.”</p><p>There was another silence, and then Mr Greene stood up, an unreadable expression on his face. “Okay, sweetheart. No more lessons. You’re free to come and go as you please. For all intents and purposes, you are an adult now. I’ll write you a list of things you need to do in the next six months, and you go to high school in September.”</p><p>A thousand thoughts ran through her mind, and she could only voice the most mundane one. </p><p>“Won’t that be early?”</p><p>Mr Greene laughed bitterly. “Who knows, sweetheart? Maybe it will be a year late.”</p>
<hr/><p>A week later, she was back in the Musicbox, explaining what had happened to Rick.</p><p>“So now I’ve got a list of things to achieve in the next six months and in September, I go to high school.”</p><p>“You can’t be old enough for high school.” He scrutinised her, disbelieving, and she shrugged. </p><p>“I don’t know. Maybe I’m a year late.” She repeated Mr Greene’s words. “I don’t know if I’m tall for my age, short for my age, the oldest in the year or the youngest. I don’t know who I am.”</p><p>It was the first time she’d admitted that. The first time she’d really discussed any emotion, rather than the practical, tangible things she spent her time around.</p><p>She twisted the key at the top of the guitar she was holding a little more and plucked the string again, then pressed the corresponding ivory key.</p><p>“Done.” She announced, handing it back to him. </p><p>He strummed it and shook his head in wonder. “Your ears are amazing,” he smiled, and began to play.</p><p>Four bars in, she’d picked it up and put a few tentative notes to it.</p><p>Four bars later, she added her left hand.</p><p>Four bars after that, he began to sing. Soft, softer than the original, perfect for this acoustic version. She let him start, and joined in.</p><p>He let her sing the verses herself. </p><p>“Too many runaways eating up the night…something about the mamba, listen to the radio…”</p><p>He chuckled at her made up lyrics and joined in. “Don’t you remember, we built this city…we built this city on rock and roll.”</p><p>When the last notes faded, he looked at her, utter wonder on his face. “You can sing too, kid,” He told her, and she stared at him. </p><p>“Everyone can sing.” She replied, genuinely confused. He smiled indulgently and laid his guitar to one side, tugging her list towards him.</p><p>“So. You need to find a school that will accept you with no SAT results,” He read and thought for a moment, then shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. And you need to find out where to get the uniform from, and where you can stay for the duration of the school year. And what you need to have with you.” He glanced up.</p><p>“We?” She demanded. </p><p>“Look, sweetheart, this is a test. You see? How are you going to do all this by yourself? That schoolmaster of yours is trying to get you to stay, and bend to his rules. Hm? But if I help you out, you can get out of here.”</p><p>She eyed him suspiciously. “Why would you do that?” she asked.</p><p>“Because I love music, and you’ve reignited the passion. You’re a gift to the musical world and you need to go to high school so they can cultivate that gift.” He sighed. “Because I never knew my aunt, and my mother thinks you remind her of her.”</p><p>She froze for a moment. “That old lady was your mum?”</p><p>He nodded. “My aunt was her twin. She died when she was ten.”</p><p>Her mouth opened and closed again. She swallowed, took a shaky breath, and looked back at the list. “Okay. So, er. What are SATs?”</p><p>Rick stared at her, and then laughed. “Yep, you definitely need my help.” He nudged her, and she hid her burning face, fighting back a smile. “Look, let’s make our own list, hm?”</p><p>He pulled the pencil from its usual position behind his ear and tugged a piece of paper towards him from the desk, almost out of reach. It dumped a pot of drawing pins all over the floor and he rolled his eyes, but ignored them.</p><p>“So. Item 1: find and prepare for school. Requirements…” He trailed off, looking down at her. “All girls?”</p><p>She shrugged. “I’m all girls now, but I’m not really fussed.”</p><p>He tapped the pencil against his teeth. “Boarding?”</p><p>She nodded. “Yes. If I never go back there, I don’t mind.”</p><p>He scribbled that down, speaking as he did. “Requirements…boarding. Hm. What about sports?”</p><p>She stared blankly at him. </p><p>“You know… do you have a favourite sport? Do you like to swim, or ski, or go horse riding?” He took in her expressionless face. “You’ve never tried any sports at all?”</p><p>She blinked. “We play catch and jump rope in the yard,” she replied defensively, not adding that she never joined in. </p><p>“Okay, that’s a separate item then. Item 2: learn to swim and try out some sports.” He tapped his teeth with a pencil again. “I have a friend down at the leisure centre. Sure he’ll help out. Right… so. Schools. Without SAT scores.”</p><p>“Are they tests?” She asked, picking up on the ‘scores’ and ‘results’ part.</p><p>“Yes,” he sighed. “You’re supposed to sit them in the last year of primary school. The better your results, the better schools you can get into. Bad SAT results are taken by lots of schools, but no results at all…”</p><p>The way he trailed off wasn’t a good sign, she knew it.</p><p>“Look, it doesn’t matter to me whether the school is good or not. I just want to get out of here. It can be the worst school in the country, as long as I’m free,” she reasoned. And it was true - learning in the traditional sense wasn’t working for her, and she didn’t want to go through another five years of that. She didn’t want to pack up her cardboard box and move to another home, so different and yet so similar to the last four, five, six she’d lived in - she’d lost count now. “I don’t like rules much anyway.” She added, sighing. “I always break them, and not always on purpose.”</p><p>Rick laughed. “Now isn’t that the truth.” He smiled at her. “Let me do some research on that one, hm? I’ll go down to the library and use the computers there.”</p><p>“Can I come? I couldn’t get in last time because I had no card and no adult.”</p><p>He smiled down at her. “Sure, kid. Let’s go.”</p>
<hr/><p>Four months into the six, she’d learned to swim - or at least, how not to drown - and found an affinity for hockey and racket sports. She also loved the gym, particularly the weights area. She was, however, hopeless at netball, basketball, football, rugby and volleyball. Interesting, given that outside of sports, she was good with her hands.</p><p>She was musing on this as she entered the library for her weekly meeting with Rick. They’d shortlisted some schools that looked alright, but the application process was proving challenging with no name or date of birth, so now they were trying to trace those, and also looking at the legal issues surrounding her lack of identity. She had mixed feelings about finding out, though, if she was honest with herself. Her lack of identity had kind of become who she was - paradoxically, it was her identity - and she was loathe to give it up.<br/>
Four hours later, she was buried in law books, and the world around her was coming further and further into focus. She’d found the books dry, over the weeks, but there was no doubt that the framework that held up this society - the world, even - was complex and full of loopholes.</p><p>She loved it.</p><p>“Hey, sweetheart, how are you getting on?” Rick called softly. She stood up and stretched, popping the book back on its shelf and wending her way over to him.</p><p>She peered over his shoulder at a school website that showed an incredibly old building with a mismatched group of girls stood out the front, with hockey sticks, lacrosse sticks and tennis rackets in their hands. There was a huge variety of fashions and styles, but all their clothes had the school crest on; it was the loosest uniform she’d ever seen.</p><p>“St. Trinian’s School for Young Ladies?” She asked.</p><p>Rick jumped badly and minimised the screen. “You don’t half creep up!” He snapped. “How do you move so quietly?”</p><p>She ignored him, reaching for the mouse and clicking the page back open again sluggishly. They didn’t have computers at home and it didn’t come naturally to her.</p><p>“It’s perfect.” She studied the photo again. “Do they need SAT results?”</p><p>“Sweetheart, it’s literally the worst school in the country. I wouldn’t even consider it. They don’t have any students that achieve qualifications.”</p><p>“Rick, I don’t need any. I don’t do rules. Look at it, that might be the only school that will take me without any background at all, and we haven’t exactly made any progress with that, have we?”</p><p>He sighed. He’d thought about all that while she was reading, and he hated that she was right, but she was right. </p><p>He pulled out his phone.</p>
<hr/><p>So it was that after five months, Mr Greene’s list was completed, and her new school uniform - donated by the school, since the (very bizarre) head mistress had taken a liking to her immediately - was hanging in her wardrobe. She’d gotten a hockey stick and a tennis racket from the leisure centre, who were buying new ones, and an old suitcase from Rick’s storage room that he’d once moved his music books into the shop in, probably before she was born (although who knew, really?). It was packed and ready with a charity shop haul of clothes she’d spent some of her Musicbox earnings on, and some other bits and bobs. To her surprise, someone had filled a photo album with snatched moments from her childhood at all the different homes, scribbling in the front, <em>I know it wasn’t perfect, but it’s still your childhood.</em> It had been left on her bed, and she assumed that it had travelled with her from place to place, handed to staff members like the other girls had folders full of documentation.</p><p>Now she just needed to find a way to get to the school, which was three counties west.</p><p>Plus, her and Rick had their list to finish too.</p><p><em>Item one: find and prepare for school. Requirements - boarding.</em> Check.</p><p><em>Item two: learn to swim and try out some sports</em>. Check.</p><p>
  <em>Item three: register. </em>
</p><p>She’d found out during her research that all births should be registered within 14 days. She hadn’t been, or at least, they couldn’t find any evidence of any kind of registration. Legally, she needed to now… somehow. But she was leaving that one for now. She’d gotten into school without doing it, so she’d maybe speak to this strange headmistress about it. Maybe she would know more than Rick did.</p><p><em>Item four: find a sponsor.</em> Easier said than done. Another thing she’d consider once her strengths had come to light at this new school. Somehow, the headmistress had waived the fees, too… so for the first year at least, she’d be alright.</p><p><em>Item five: makeover.</em> This one, she wasn’t sure about. It was Rick’s idea, and she didn’t seem to have a say.</p>
<hr/><p>“Sweetheart?” Mr Greene called. She stood, folding up her list, and pulled self-consciously at the uncomfortable uniform she’d got on. </p><p>“Yes, sir.” She stepped out into the corridor. </p><p>“Your lift is here. I have no gift to give you, but I will pay for that.” He looked her up and down, and smiled proudly. “I didn’t think you’d do it. I didn’t think you’d actually pull it off and I’d really have to say goodbye.”</p><p>She remained quiet and still as she was pulled into a stiff hug. She’d had good memories here, and bad ones, just like at all her homes, but she didn’t feel any emotion on leaving. “Thank you,” She said finally, realising that a taxi all the way to her new school would probably cost quite a lot of money.</p><p>Mr Greene pulled back and smiled again. “Come. Your music friend suggested this lift in particular, and you need to be going as soon as possible apparently, so… let’s get your things.”</p><p>She lifted her suitcase easily and carried it out to the car, Mr Greene trailing behind with her rackets. The contents of her cardboard box - a few favourite books, a scarf she’d gotten for the first Christmas she remembered, and a snowglobe from one of the volunteer’s last holidays, plus her clothes - were all in the suitcase, and the cardboard box that had held them before, the one she’d had as long as she could remember, had been surprisingly painful to throw away. She pushed that ridiculous thought down, though, and maneouvred the suitcase into the boot of the car.</p><p>Mr Greene leaned in and patted her knuckles. “Good luck, sweetheart. Write to us.”</p><p>She nodded, knowing she wouldn’t, and waved out the window as the car pulled away.</p><p>“We gotta stop to make, love,” the driver told her once the house was out of sight, scrubbing his stubble.</p><p>She shrugged. “Okay.” She agreed easily. “How soon?”</p><p>“Now.” </p><p>She frowned. They’d barely been driving a minute and she was still watching with fascination, as she always did, as the gear stick moved up and down, left and right.</p><p>The car drew to a halt, and Rick stuck his head in. “Hey, sweetheart. I wanted to say bye, and good luck.”</p><p>She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Thanks for everything,” She said quietly. He chuckled. </p><p>“My pleasure. Thank you.” He scratched his neck, then pulled out a CD. “Here. This is some of yours, and some of mine, and some of both. I, er. I have one too.”</p><p>She took it gently, fingers slipping on the thin plastic case, and smiled. “Thank you.”</p><p>“Look, sweetheart, I’m not going to be here. If you come back. My mum’s sick, and I’m closing up to look after her. Taking her abroad to find some treatment.”</p><p>She looked at him, emotionless, his mother’s strange, strangled voice echoing in her ears. She wasn’t sure what to say, because she hadn’t been planning to come back anyway.</p><p>“I hope you find her something. I hope she’s alright,” She said finally. He smiled at her as a tear dripped down his face and he squeezed her fingers, and pushed a box of cereal bars into her hands. </p><p>“Dan, don’t forget the last stop, yeah?” he called through to the driver, who nodded. Then he looked back at her and touched her cheek. “Knock em dead, sweetheart. You’re gonna rock the world.”</p><p>Then he withdrew, and he was gone.</p>
<hr/><p>Dan, the driver, let her move into the front of the car and watch him drive. She understood the rhythm of it fairly quickly, having peered down at the pedals and studied the movement of the gearstick for a few tens of miles, and eventually began mimicking the movements, which for some reason he found very funny.</p><p>“What’s the last stop?” She asked finally, hands dropping back to her knees.</p><p>“My man Rick’s payin’ for ya to have that makeover that was on ya list.” Dan shifted down a gear and put his foot down to overtake a tractor. He slotted in between it and a lorry at the last moment. She didn’t even flinch, but the lorry driver gesticulated out the window at them.</p><p>“How rude.” She observed serenely, completely unaware that the lorry driver was more in the right than the man driving her to her new school, and then returned her attention to the previous conversation. “Er, makeover where?”</p><p>“Not sure. Ex pupil of this new school o’ yours, apparently. Price fixed.”</p><p>She sighed. The whole world revolved around money, and everything she knew of it she’d learned from Rick.</p><p>“Will you thank him for me?”</p><p>“Sure, kid. Sure.”</p>
<hr/><p>They stopped, hours later, in a town smaller than the ones she’d taught herself to navigate and learned so much in. There weren’t many shops or restaurants, really. Just a pub and a garage, and a lot of houses.</p><p>Dan held the door open for her in a move much more refined than his speech patterns, and led her to one of the houses. He checked the number against a piece of paper he was carrying and knocked firmly.</p><p>“Fuck off, Loose Women’s on.” A voice called from inside.</p><p>She and Dan looked at one another in surprise.</p><p>“We, er, have an appointment,” Dan called back, unsure.</p><p>A few moments later, the door clicked open. “Hello, handsome.” A low, sultry voice  issued from behind it. Dan blushed scarlet and stepped aside so she was visible.</p><p>“Oh! I forgot you were coming, how silly of me.” The occupant’s voice became higher, giggly. “Do come in.” She opened the door wider, and the light fell on her make-up-caked face and chocolate ringlets.</p><p>They both stepped in cautiously.</p><p>“I’m Margot. I graduated from St. Trinian’s in July.” She led them through a cosy living space, where Loose Women was indeed playing to itself. They emerged into a huge kitchen-diner, but the dining room had been transformed into what looked like the backstage area of the theatre. She’d only been to the theatre back home once, and she’d snuck in after hours on one of her first trips out. “Can I get anyone a drink? I’m short on…well, shorts, but I have alcopops and wine galore.”</p><p>“I’m driving.” Dan pointed out diplomatically. “And she’s underage.”</p><p>“Live a little!” Margot put a hand on his chest and turned her eyes on the tiny girl. “And honey, if you’re going to St. Trinian’s, you need to learn to hold your drink.”</p><p>Moments later, neither one sure how it had happened, both had a bottle of Smirn-Off ICE in each hand.</p><p>“So. What’s your name, and why are you going to St. Trinian’s?”</p><p>She looked up to find Margot watching her. To fill the silence, she took a tentative sip of the drink in her right hand and found she quite liked it. </p><p>“I, er… couldn’t find any other schools that would accept me,” she hedged.</p><p>Margot raised one thin, perfect eyebrow. “I doubt that very much. You’re far too smart to have pissed that many people off, and far too small to be finishing primary school.”</p><p>She shrugged. “I haven’t pissed anyone off,” she repeated the words back to this strange, tall, oddly beautiful woman. “And I didn’t go to primary school. I grew up in a school, kind of.”</p><p>She took another sip of her drink, and then another. Margot watched her, eyes belying the intelligence she hid behind layers of foundation. “You grew up in the system.” She surmised.</p><p>“Or… not in the system.” She replied with a snort, and then began laughing, shaking her head at the utter ridiculousness of the last few months. She placed the bottles carefully down on the worktop and wiped at her eyes. “I have no name, and no birthday. I don’t know how old I am, and I grew up in an orphanage.”</p><p>Margot smiled. “Wow. A true blank canvas.” She prowled forward, then around her, sizing her up. “Do you want to start high school, or do a few years of primary first? St Trinian’s has both.”</p><p>She shook her head. “High. I think I’m old enough. I feel old enough. Might as well.”</p><p>“Ambitious. I like it.” Margot nodded. “So, I think a good cut of this little-girl-long hair. Power, maturity.” She held her hand where she’d cut, mid-back. “And a strong fashion statement. And some makeup, because that ages everyone. But you need a name. We can get away without a birthday, but your fashion and your name need to match, so get thinking.”</p><p>It didn’t take very long, in the end, after so many years of refusal. </p><p>“What’s the most common surname?”</p><p>Margot shrugged. Dan, who had almost finished his first bottle of Smirn-Off, said, “Smith. Or Jones maybe. Or you could be Jane Doe.” He laughed at his joke, but stopped quickly when it became clear that the girls didn’t understand. He looked between them, then shrugged and walked out, back towards the living room, humming to himself.</p><p>A moment’s quiet preceded the announcement, and it felt like rebirth.</p><p>“Jones. Kelly Jones.”</p><p>Margot considered her for a moment, head on one side. Then a slow smile spread over her face. “Hi, Kelly.” She held her hand out. “Welcome to the rest of your life.”</p><p>Kelly shook it, smiling.</p><p>“So. To business. Ever straightened your hair?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“Let the lessons begin.”</p><p>Margot straightened Kelly’s hair, cut it, and put on some dark lipstick and eye makeup, chattering away about the school and its quirks. </p><p>Finished, she stood admiring the girl. She made a few wardrobe tweaks, just so the uniform wasn’t too smart, and patted her shoulder. “Go get em, kid. And when you’re old enough, get a tattoo.”</p><p>Kelly thanked her, then stood and walked towards the mirror, admiring her reflection. Margot was right; she looked older. Her hair was glossier, her lips a dark matte burgundy, her eyes darker and more intense with the shadow and mascara. </p><p>She raised a single, newly-darkened eyebrow and smirked. “Why wait?” She asked, and turned on one heeled shoe, clipping confidently away.</p><p>Towards her future.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Polly Runs Away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It needs to be a church school, sweetheart.”</p><p>Polly pouted. “But dad, I’m in church all the time outside of school.”</p><p>“Yes, but they teach differently at church schools, and that’s what we want for you.”</p><p>Polly’s mother threw an arm around her shoulders. “It’s for the best, love.”</p><p>Polly disagreed, but she was only five. Her opinion didn’t matter - even if it was her who’d be going to the school. She sighed, ducking out from under her mother’s arm and marching away, pigtails swinging.</p>
<hr/><p>“You’ll still see him in the holidays, love.”</p><p>“I could see him every day if you’d let me walk to the closest school like everyone else.” Polly didn’t look up.</p><p>“Less of the attitude, young lady. You’re five, not fifteen.”</p><p>Polly tugged on her ridiculous blazer and loosened her tie. “Then why am I dressed like this?”</p><p>“Because it’s the uniform. Everyone will be dressed like that.”</p><p>Polly sighed. “It’s stupid.” She announced, and turned away.</p>
<hr/><p>Her irritation lasted well into her first term. The school uniform was uncomfortable and completely impractical for all the things they encouraged the students to do - playing outside at break and lunch, sitting on the floor for assemblies and worship, and practical learning with messy things like sandboxes, pools of water, flowerbeds and paint pots. </p><p>Despite thinking these activities very childish, Polly took great pleasure in getting her uniform as messy as possible. The class teacher made sure they always took their blazers off for the messiest activities, but it still took just two weeks to get though every shirt her parents had bought her, stain her tie, and mark the ridiculous kilt-like skirt they had to wear. </p><p>“See, at Oliver’s school, they just have trousers and a jumper. Much easier to wash,” she explained earnestly as her parents looked despairingly at one another.</p><p>“Polly, you hate doing messy things at home. Why are you trying so hard to ruin this? It’s such a good school.”</p><p>“The lessons are for babies. We spent three hours yesterday making bug shapes out of play-doh.”</p><p>He father sighed. “I will give them a ring. In the meantime, young lady, you need to be more grateful.” He swept out of the vicarage kitchen, and her mother stood, gathering her uniform and some soap powder to wash them in the sink before trying the machine.</p>
<hr/><p>By October half term, Polly had jumped a year, and was settling into year one. She was still bored, but at least there was less play-doh, and they got to use the computers.</p><p>The whole concept of literacy lessons was foreign to her. She’d been reading along with her father’s teachings in the bible for at least two years, and copied passages she found particularly interesting or troubling for later reflection. She’d been editing his sermons for him for a year or so, because his grammar really was terrible. And if you were really stuck, you could just look it up on the computer or in the dictionary. She just didn’t understand why the other students couldn’t see that.</p><p>She enjoyed maths, and the numbers clicked in her brain like nothing - not even religion - ever had before. She learned her times tables by heart and was quickly able to transfer those rules across onto other, more complex problems. Soon, she was answering questions without having to write anything down, and her teacher was setting her separate work to everyone else, because she was too fast for them all.</p><p>Polly enjoyed all the other subjects that involved facts. Anything anyone told her that did happen, does happen or is happening, be it historical events, life cycles, chemical reactions or current affairs. She spent all her free reading time looking at non-fiction books and encyclopedias, and had an impressive ability to retain information, reframing it and explaining it to other people at a later date.</p><p>It didn’t take very long for the teachers at her school to realise that Polly was incredibly bright, and incredibly stubborn. She knew what she was good at, and she wasn’t interested in what she wasn’t good at - those things being Art, Drama, and Sports. Or really, anything practical, that the other kids loved. But she could write essays, high-school-standard essays, linking together subjects that seemed linkless until she’d used some obscure fact or quote and done some research.</p><p>It took her less than a month to work out how to use the computers, and after that, they couldn’t get her off them. She’d be researching for hours, and they had no real way of stopping her because she was well beyond year one work but they couldn’t put her up another grade.</p><p>It was no real wonder that Polly’s boredom began to cause problems. </p>
<hr/><p>After the messy incidents with her uniform, she settled down for a few weeks.</p><p>Then she  began backchatting in PE lessons.</p><p>It wasn’t that she wasn’t any good at sports, exactly. But she had no interest in them at all. She wasn’t the best, but that wasn’t the problem - it was that she had so many better things she felt like doing, than doing star jumps in the playground and catching - or not catching - flying items thrown badly by other children. Like research, like discovering more about the world around her, like contributing to it.</p><p>And she made these feelings known.</p><p>“Polly Cole, I don’t appreciate your tone. I suggest you go inside and consider your words.”</p><p>Polly turned and hurried inside. She grabbed the book she’d started that morning and threw herself on the cushions to continue reading. “Result,” She murmured quietly.</p><p>After the fourth lesson in a row she managed to get kicked out of in favour of reading, her teacher caught on, and the headteacher came to see her.</p><p>“Polly, you’re a gifted student,” he began.</p><p>She frowned. “I know. In some areas. But you don’t let me explore those.”</p><p>The headteacher shook his head. “You need to be well-rounded, Polly. That’s what these early years at school are for.”</p><p>“Yes,” she agreed, “and then you specialise. In teaching, or religion, or hairdressing, or science, or maths, or farming. I know. But I already know I want to learn more about science and maths and technology, and that’s what I’m already good at, so why do I need to prance around the school field in shorts?”</p><p>He sighed, pushing his glasses up and rubbing his eyes. “Because it’s the law. I suggest you get used to it.” He stood abruptly. “No more backchatting your teachers.”</p>
<hr/><p>Polly had been in trouble with her parents for that one, but she just didn’t understand why. </p><p>“But god’s given me this gift, mum. My intelligence. You always said I was smart. Why won’t anyone let me use it properly?”</p><p>Her father replied, because her mother didn’t seem to know what to say.</p><p>“Rules are rules, Polly. Just like the ten commandments.”</p><p>“But they’re sensible rules, dad. If we all went around killing each other and stealing, the world wouldn’t work. But how much harm could it do, letting me do some research or learn about science instead of PE, or acting?”</p><p>Her parents looked at each other.</p><p>“We don’t follow all the rules in the bible. The bible says we can’t eat seafood, or mix different types of cloth, but we do that all the time, don’t we?”</p><p>Her mother put her head in her hands. Her father cut her off sharply - more sharply than she’d ever heard him speak.</p><p>“Enough, Polly. Now go and say your prayers.”</p><p>“But daddy, it’s not even -”</p><p>“I don’t care what time it is. Go. Talk to god. Think about what we’ve just discussed.”</p><p>Polly went, pigtails swinging behind her. The cathedral was echoing and cavernous when it was empty. She loved reading all the inscriptions, feeling the history of the place.</p><p>She did think about the conversation, she really did. But it didn’t change her mind.</p>
<hr/><p>Polly’s next incident came in drama class. She was supposed to be pretending to be very upset about something.</p><p>“But I’m not,” she told the teacher blankly. </p><p>“Imagine your pet dog has run away.”</p><p>“I don’t have a pet dog.”</p><p>“Imagine your sister broke your favourite toy.”</p><p>“I don’t have a sister. Or very many toys.”</p><p>“Imagine… imagine you were lost in the supermarket.”</p><p>“I love getting lost. It’s the best way to learn new things.”</p><p>The teacher, Mr Donaldson, stared at her for a moment and then sighed. “Polly, we’re pretending. Just…pretend that you’re upset about something.”</p><p>“But why pretend to be sad if you’re not? Lots of people pretend to be happy when they’re not, but… not sad.” </p><p>There was a silence so intense, Polly could hear her heartbeat. She didn’t understand why everyone got so quiet when she did that. They were sensible questions, so why did everyone hold their breaths like she was doing something wrong?</p><p>“Polly, this is school. It’s compulsory. You need to pretend to be upset.”</p><p>“There’s no point pretending. He can always see us,” she pointed skywards, “Even when we’re lying.”</p><p>“Are you in religious studies class?” Her teacher thundered suddenly. She jumped. </p><p>“N-no?” </p><p>“No, you’re in drama class. So I suggest you do as I say.”</p><p>A girl to Polly’s left burst into tears, and Polly stared at her. </p><p>“Wow, Evangeline, you’re really good,” she said with a smile. </p><p>“Unbelievable,” Mr Donaldson said quietly, eyes raised to the ceiling. Then he gripped her elbow, pulled her to her feet, and thrust her towards the door. “Out. Now. Wait outside the headmaster’s office.”</p><p>Polly frowned, but walked in that direction anyway.</p>
<hr/><p>That was her second meeting with the headteacher. During the meeting, Polly found out that Evangeline hadn’t been pretending to be upset at all, but had been frightened by Mr Donaldson’s shouting. She was surprised about that, but still didn’t really understand the relevance.</p><p>“But… why is that my fault?”</p><p>She could tell it was, from the look the two men exchanged. They obviously didn’t feel it pertinent to share the information with her, though.</p><p>Pertinent. Wasn’t that a lovely word? She’d just learned it and she very much liked it.</p><p>“I think we need to get your parents in here, Polly. You’re distracting your classmates.”</p><p>Polly sighed. “I keep telling you, I don’t need to distract them. Just set me some work to do and I won’t bother anyone.”</p><p>“You can’t go through your whole school life working independently, Polly. You have to get to know other people.”</p><p>Polly sighed again. “How? I don’t have anything in common with any of the people in my class. They all want to do cartwheels and play with play-doh and run around ‘pretending’ things, and I want to learn about the world.” She came upon an idea. “Why don’t I sit in lessons where we actually learn things, and then for the playtime ones, I come work in the office?”</p><p>Mr Donaldson laughed. “You’re too young to work, Polly. And the playtime lessons are valuable lessons too. Not to mention compulsory by law.”</p><p>Polly shook her head sadly. “Adults are all about rules for the sake of rules. What’s the point of having a rule without reason?”</p><p>Neither one of them seemed to know how to answer that. They both just looked at each other.</p><p>Polly threw her hands up in frustration.</p>
<hr/><p>When her parents arrived, Polly was sat mutinously in the corner, arms folded, glum expression in place.</p><p>“I hope you’ve apologised, young lady,” her father said dangerously.</p><p>Polly looked up, her lip beginning to tremble. “I don’t understand what for!” She burst out, and her mother gathered her into a hug. </p><p>“Shh. Come on, sweetheart, we’ve talked about this, haven’t we, hm? You need to do as your teachers ask, even if it seems silly. The first time. Without question.”</p><p>“I know, mum, but it’s getting sillier, and I don’t want to any more. I just want to learn!”</p><p>Her father shook his head. “Maybe we should think about sending you next year instead, Pol. Maybe you’re not ready.”</p><p>She sighed loudly. “No, dad, I’m too ready. I want to go to high school.”</p><p>“You’re not old enough.”</p><p>“I know. That’s why I’m so angry.” Polly yanked at a plait and took a deep breath.</p><p>“I think we need to go home for the day, hm?” Her mother placed a warm hand between her shoulder blades. “Go to the cathedral and have a think.”</p><p>Polly stared at her for a moment, and then laughed, a strangled, hysterical sound. “That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? Go to the cathedral and think? Reflection and talking to god?”</p><p>“There’s nothing that can’t be fixed with some prayers and thought, sweetheart.”</p><p>Polly looked incredulously from her mother to her father. “Then why are there starving people in the world? Why are the oceans full of plastic, why isn’t Oliver at this school with me, why do earthquakes happen, why did King Henry behead two of his wives, and <em>why doesn’t He ever talk back?”</em></p><p>There was a stunned silence after her little rant. And then her father stepped forwards and delivered a swift slap to her cheek.</p><p>“You do not speak ill of the Lord.” He told her quietly.</p><p>“Mr Cole, I cannot- “</p><p>“I don’t expect you to condone my behaviour, but Polly is my daughter, and I will deliver discipline as I see fit.” Her father cut across the headteacher coolly. “Come, Polly. We’re going home to pray, and tomorrow you will be back here with an apology and a better attitude.”<br/>
Polly, eyes full of tears, kept her eyes on the floor as she followed him out.</p>
<hr/><p>After that, Mr Donaldson was kinder to her. He encouraged her to have a go at the sports and drama classes, and even art. But he allowed her to follow her own path. She began mixing paints in art for the other students to use, and her mixing was mathematical and methodical, so they always got exactly the same colour if they needed a repeat. “You’re still learning the colour wheel,” he explained when she asked why he was being so kind.</p><p>In sports, he let her observe the angles and forces acting on the ball or students as they moved. When they played netball, she could shout out helpful cues about how hard and high to throw the ball to get it into the net, and in the balancing games, how far to throw out which leg to counteract the wobbling. She learned how far between two people the ball should bounce to make it all the way across the space, and why stopping the ball before kicking it was more accurate than not doing so. When the classes were less suited to this kind of analysis, he set her up with snooker videos, or the olympic and winter olympic footage, or allowed her to research the rules of a sport and where they came from, or the differences between sports played in different countries, or some niche sports that weren’t often heard of. </p><p>And in drama, he let her consider the applications of acting, besides the obvious. He lent her history books about the role of spies in the world wars, and case studies on drama and acting therapy. He let her watch the students and analyse who acted the best, and who spoke the best, and who used their facial expressions the best. He let her watch films and theatre productions and write reviews, and he let her consider different kinds of plays - musicals, Shakespeare, Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, and some morality plays - for comparison’s sake. It was higher level learning, and Polly loved it. She helped with the end-of-year play in the end, editing the script to make it more fun, more suited to the students cast in each role, and as a reward, Mr Donaldson let her play her flute while everyone came in.</p><p>She finished the school year very pleased with her progress, and much happier with the rate of her learning.</p><p>Unfortunately, her father was not so understanding when her report came.</p><p>Because they hadn’t had any more calls from school, her parents had assumed that Polly - as they’d demanded - was keeping her head down and not questioning her teachers any more.</p><p>Instead, of course, she was challenging Mr Donaldson every day.</p><p>When she got in from school the day her report arrived, she skipped down the road to the door, bursting to tell her parents what she’d learned about money and the fiscal system that day. It blew her mind that each coin and note was just a promise of money, rather than actual money, but it opened so many possibilities -</p><p>Her mind, always so busy and full, shuddered to a halt as she took in her parents, sat together at the kitchen table, neither looking at the booklet before them, both looking devastated.</p><p>“What’s happened?” She blurted, suddenly worried that something terrible had happened to one of the congregation.</p><p>“This is your report, Polly,” her father said heavily.</p><p>Polly frowned in confusion. “Oh.” She said, sitting down slowly. “Mr Donaldson told me earlier that they wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, but he said I had nothing to worry about and he was going to miss me next year.”</p><p>“Did he.” Her father didn’t phrase it like a question, so Polly wasn’t quite sure what to say. “This report isn’t satisfactory, Polly.” He pushed it across the table to her, and she snatched it up and skimmed the first half-page.</p><p>Delight to teach…thirst for knowledge…conscientious student…enthusiasm and intelligence unheard of for one so young…despite initial misunderstanding, Polly relishes a challenge - both giving and receiving - and it has been very refreshing to challenge and be challenged by her this year.</p><p>Polly looked up, frowning. “Why?” She asked.</p><p>“Why? Polly, you promised us you would stop the backchat and rudeness!” Her mother suddenly cried.</p><p>“But I have! Mr Donaldson is setting me really interesting work, and I honestly haven’t been rude at all since you came in before Christmas!”</p><p>“Yet you’ve been ‘challenging’ him all year.” Her father frowned at her. “Read on.”</p><p>Polly did. Bits of work were missing, she realised; the drama report said she hadn’t shown any acting skill, but had thrown herself into the theory. The art report similarly read that she hadn’t produced any artwork, but had made significant progress in her understanding of how colours worked and the history of the artistic movements. And her PE report was all about theory and maths.</p><p>She thought they were glowing, actually. She wanted to give Mr Donaldson a hug.</p><p>“Polly, you can’t go through fourteen years of education and never pick up a bat or a paintbrush,” her mother said gently. </p><p>“Why not?” She replied fiercely, clutching the report to her chest. </p><p>“Backchatting. Again.” Her father sighed, and stood.</p><p>Before she’d realised what was going on, Polly was being dragged from her chair by her pigtails. Her father pulled and tugged her through the house, into the garden, and through the side door of the cathedral, and deposited her in front of the altar.<br/>
“Don’t come back until you’ve repented,” He told her, and swept away, slamming the door closed behind himself.</p><p>Polly laid on the stone floor and sobbed.</p>
<hr/><p>After that, Polly did her hair in plaits as normal, and then wound the plaits up and held them in place with another bobble. It had hurt more than she’d been willing to let on, and now if her hair wasn’t up around her father, she flinched.</p><p>She spent her summer holiday catching up with Oliver, who immediately complimented her new hair style, and she was pleased to hear that he had some of the same complaints about his school and his lessons. They both knew he wasn’t as bright as Polly, but he was definitely more intelligent than average for his age. He was also from, as her folks liked to call it, ‘a rougher background’. He could get away with mouthing off at school, and he did quite like elements of art and sport, it was just drama he thought was pointless.<br/>
Polly took it upon herself to explain to him the uses of drama, just as she’d learned them. She hurried to explain that she still didn’t act in lessons, but she understood some of the benefits now.</p><p>She told him about the different kinds of play. About how the body language and facial expression part of acting helped the audience to understand what was going on when the play was written by, or around the time of, Shakespeare, and how plays and films could make you laugh or cry if the subject matter was deep enough and the actors were good enough. She talked about the impact of soap operas on society and how spies helped win the second world war.</p><p>And then Oliver kissed her.</p><p>She laughed and kissed him back, and then stood up, dusting herself off. “I have to go,” she said cheerfully. “There’s a service tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.” </p><p>And she darted away, smiling.</p>
<hr/><p>The summer passed (mostly) without incident, and Polly felt okay about going back to school, although she was going to miss Oliver. He’d kissed her a few more times throughout the holidays, and every time she thought about it, she giggled.</p><p>Unfortunately, the reality of going back to school wasn’t as rosy as she’d painted it in her head.</p><p>Her class’s new teacher taught her for two days, then moved her up a year. </p><p>After another three days, the headteacher moved her back down. </p><p>“She’s already skipped a grade. We can’t skip her again,” he argued.</p><p>“There’s no way I’m keeping her in here all year. She’s way beyond this level.”</p><p>“To be honest, she’s beyond most levels, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”</p><p>The argument raged as if Polly wasn’t even there and she sighed, knowing that her parents would hear about this.</p><p>Sure enough, when it had been decided that she would indeed skip another year, Polly headed home with dread filling her stomach.</p><p>She hadn’t even got a foot over the threshold of the door before her father had her by the ear, twisting painfully. </p><p>“What did you do?” He asked roughly, and the wild look in his eyes was new. It scared her half to death, and her mother sat, trembling, at the table, Polly’s fear reflected right back at her.</p><p>For the first time, and a little detachedly, Polly noted a pattern of fading bruises on her mother’s forearm.</p><p>“N-nothing, I didn’t do anything,” she replied breathlessly, standing on tiptoes to counteract her father’s lifting motion. “I swear, I did everything the teacher asked!”</p><p>Her father let go abruptly and Polly stumbled, her feet not quite under her enough to stop her sprawling to the ground.</p><p>“You corrected her. You corrected your teacher. More than once.”</p><p>Polly frowned. “Dad, I- I don’t think I did, I just…added some things she’d missed-”</p><p>He hauled her up by the other ear. “Which is rude, Polly. You are not a teacher, you’re a child.”</p><p>And again, Polly was dragged through the house into the cathedral and deposited at the altar.</p><p>
  <em>Well, god. Week one of school went amazing. I’m…not sure what I’m supposed to be sorry for, but…help me?</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Polly withdrew into herself over the course of the year. She clung more and more to the services her father performed, because it was the closest she could get to how he used to be. The friendly, kindly vicar she’d spent her childhood with was still there in the church, but at home, he was tucked atop the mantelpiece with her father’s dog collar. </p><p>His sermons were as thought-provoking as ever, his voice as authoritative and yet soft as it had always been, and Polly missed it.</p><p>At school, she kept her head down, completing all the work to the best of her ability. If she ever went above and beyond - and she did, regularly - she kept the extra to herself, handing in only what she’d been asked for. She took part in all her classes, even the ones she thought were stupid. </p><p>Between trying so hard to seem ordinary and being as devoted as she was to the church, Polly had little time for anything else. Her mind still ran a mile a minute, but she was doing a remarkable job of keeping it in.</p><p>That is, until her report came. </p><p>She froze in the doorway when she saw the familiar booklet on the table, her parents once again sat at the table. Her mother’s eye was swollen and bruised, and Polly supposed she’d had another accident - she was getting very clumsy. Last month, she’d fallen down the stairs and had to have her knee stitched up.</p><p>“Polly.” Her father’s voice was low and dangerous, and he wasn’t wearing his dog collar. She tensed.</p><p>“Yes, dad.”</p><p>“What’s this?” He lifted the report.</p><p>“M-my report?” She asked, wracking her brains as she tried to work out what she could possibly have done wrong this time.</p><p>“Yes. Your report. Describing a lazy child who puts in as little effort as possible. A child with no drive or ambition, no love for learning, and no enthusiasm. A child who coasts.”</p><p>Polly gulped. “But I…thought that’s what you wanted.”</p><p>Her head snapped to one side with the stinging slap.</p><p>Polly spent all that night in the cathedral and listened to the morning birdsong as the sun came up, spilling patterns of light through the stained glass window.</p><p><em>God help me,</em> she thought desperately<em>. I don’t understand this world.</em></p>
<hr/><p>Her parents took her out of that school and sent her to another, further away again. She began afresh in September, in a jumper and skirt just like she’d wanted from the start, instead of that stupid blazer and tie.</p><p>The new school had better computers, and Polly spent hours on them, researching anything that came to mind. </p><p>It also wasn’t a church school. That puzzled Polly. Her parents had been so determined about that before, and now they didn’t seem to care somehow.</p><p>She found herself questioning the whole idea of religion, after a few weeks without morning worship. She didn’t feel any different. She’d even skipped a few church services, feeling too sick now to see her father acting like a good man. Her mother’s injuries were becoming more regular, and Polly had a feeling they weren’t all accidents any more. She didn’t understand what had changed, but it felt like her fault, and her father was all tied up with god, and now she’d taken a step back, it felt…liberating.</p><p>
  <em>If you are there and I’m offending you, I’m sorry. But you weren’t answering me, and if my dad is the sort of person you want preaching your divine word, then… I’m not sure how much respect I can have for you.</em>
</p><p>Polly had given up trying to please everyone. If her teachers were pleased, her classmates weren’t, and if her classmates were, her teachers weren’t. Reports in this school came out twice a year, and neither of them were good enough. She was in trouble with the school staff if she didn’t play outside at breaktime, but she was in trouble at home if she got her dress or her skirt mucky. She found the whole world a lot easier in computers, where everything could be simplified to zeros and ones.</p><p>Her mother had stopped speaking or leaving the house, and Polly couldn’t remember the last time she’d hugged her. Neither of them went closer to her father than swinging distance.</p>
<hr/><p>After her first year at this new school, Polly was summoned by the man who would apparently be teaching her next year.</p><p>“I understand you’re a little bored, Polly.”</p><p>She shrugged mutely, knowing whatever she said would be wrong.</p><p>“I have a colleague who’d be willing to spend lunchtimes teaching you a language next year.”</p><p>Polly stared, her mouth a little open, and her new teacher chuckled. “Only if you want to, of course.”</p><p>Polly laughed, breathless at the thought of a new challenge. “Would I,” she replied excitedly. “What language?”</p><p>Her teacher smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Mr Hutchinson. Come, let me introduce you.”</p><p>Polly took his hand, a grin splitting her face, and hurried along beside him to a little room off the atrium that was used for private music lessons.</p><p>“Polly, this is Javid. He’s learning how to teach languages, so you’d be a bit of a project for him. How does that sound?”</p><p>Polly, eyes shining, grinned at Javid and held out her hand, which he shook respectfully. “Hello, Polly.” He said in a deep, accented voice, and Polly giggled with excitement.</p><p>“What language do you teach?” she asked breathlessly, eyes roaming over his darker-than-olive skin, black hair and stubble, and baggy white trousers. “Wait, wait - are you Muslim?”</p><p>He laughed delightedly. “Clever girl,” he replied, “I am. So I know Arabic, naturally. And I am from Turkey, so I speak Turkish, and my Greek isn’t bad either.”</p><p>“Wow.” Polly smiled even wider. “So I could learn all of them?”</p><p>Javid chuckled. “Hold your horses, kid. One at a time, I think.”</p><p>Polly pouted, but considered. “Arabic,” she decided. “I’d like to learn more about your religion as well as the language. My family is Christian.”</p><p>He smiled thoughtfully at her and nodded. “Arabic it is. Here,” he reached across the desk and picked up two books from a stack, “Take these for the summer. Pocket Arabic-English dictionary, and a little Qu’ran. Now, don’t forget - you treat this with as much respect as your bible, hm? And the script goes right to left.”</p><p>Polly took both books reverently. “Does this have to stay above my waist?” She asked.</p><p>Javid smiled. “For the true Qu’ran, in full, and during services, absolutely. But myself and Allah will forgive you if this little snippet doesn’t. Just be gentle, yes?”</p><p>Polly nodded, her face splitting with a wide smile.</p>
<hr/><p>That summer was long and hot. Polly spent most of it with Oliver, avoiding her own home as much as possible. He kissed her a few more times, and she asked him shyly if he’d kissed anyone else while she’d been at school. He shook his head, and for some reason that made her incredibly happy.</p><p>The best thing about spending time with Oliver was that he’d grown up with her. He knew all about her past, and she didn’t have to explain any part of herself to him. He knew something was wrong at home, but he didn’t ask, and he let her babble on about all the things she’d learned. And when they were both all talked out, he’d just watch as she pored over the dictionary and the Qu’ran, tracing the shapes of the squiggles and trying to translate bits of the holy book.</p><p>It was harder than anything she’d tried before.</p><p>Eventually, she worked on figuring out the alphabet, but even that wasn’t simple.</p><p>Oliver let her keep the books in his room, for fear her father would find them. </p><p>It wasn’t until nearly the end of summer that Polly found out about Oliver’s problems at school.</p>
<hr/><p>A boy in his class had been calling him names. He’d broken his glasses, and stolen his lunch money, and - quiet and introverted as he was - he’d fallen behind.</p><p>“I’d show them.” Polly swung her arm around his shoulders. “Don’t let him get away with it, Ollie. Next time, you hit him. He’ll leave you alone then.”</p><p>Oliver smiled tremulously. “I just wish I didn’t have to wear these.” He plucked at his glasses.</p><p>The very next day, Polly swiped some coins from the church collection box, went down the hill to the pharmacy and bought the least magnifying reading glasses she could find. They didn’t make too much difference to her eyesight, and she didn’t need them, but whenever she was going to see Oliver, she put them on.</p><p>On her way home, new glasses in her pocket and feeling no guilt at all about taking the money - <em>it was only £3, god, and I’ll put the change back. And it is sort of for charity, after all -</em> she saw Mr Hutchinson.</p><p>She shouted him excitedly, running between people on the footpath to catch him. He smiled when he saw her coming. </p><p>“Polly, are you having a good summer? My goodness, you are sunburnt.”</p><p>It was true. Polly’s fair skin and red hair made her vulnerable to it, and she hadn’t dared ask her parents to buy her any sun cream.</p><p>She smiled anyway, telling him about Oliver and her attempts to work out the Arabic alphabet.</p><p>“I have a friend who works in the library,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps she’ll let you in.”</p><p>And half an hour later, he left her in the cool quiet of the town library with wishes for a lovely summer. The librarian he’d greeted with a lingering kiss on the cheek had given her a login and password for the computers that would last until Christmas and promised she could read any book as long as she didn’t take it out with her.</p><p>Polly looked up and carefully copied down the Arabic alphabet, and then read up on the sounds and grammatical structure of the language. It was hard, she realised. She’d be learning new words and new ways to write those words. It was like a very complicated code.</p><p>Hours later, the friendly librarian chivvied her out and kindly told her the next day’s opening times.</p><p>Polly skipped all the way home to tell Oliver all about it and show off her new glasses, popping the leftover coins in the donations box as she passed.</p>
<hr/><p>Her first Arabic lesson of the new school year found her vibrating in excitement in the music room, waiting for Javid to arrive. He did so, chuckling the moment he saw her.</p><p>She presented the books to him reverently and spoke carefully. “As-salamu alaykum.”</p><p>He laughed delightedly, putting the books gently on the closest table, and laid a hand over his heart. “Wa’alaykumu as-salam,” he replied, bowing his head. “Now, Polly, that is a mostly Muslim greeting.”</p><p>“Yes. Like the Christian <em>peace be with you.”</em> Polly grinned and threw herself in a chair. “Mr Hutchinson got me access to the library and I’ve been doing research on the computers.”</p><p>“I don’t want to cause any problems between you and your family, Polly.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes. “There are problems anyway,” she shrugged. “And…” she hesitated. “No offence, but although your traditions and stuff are completely different, both religions seem to be based around the same central teachings about what’s right and wrong.”</p><p>Javid smiled. “You’re a mature young lady, Polly. Now, did you work out how to write those greetings down?”</p><p>Polly was a fast learner, and it didn’t take her long to chatter hesitantly and imperfectly to Javid in Arabic. Reading took a while longer, and writing even longer than that, but she was patient and conscientious.</p><p>By Christmas, she was talking to god or to Allah, depending on her mood. She didn’t really split the difference any more. For the first time, the upcoming church festivals did nothing to raise her spirits, and the prospect of the Christmas break and watching her father preach to his extensive congregation three times a day about the baby and the miracle of Mary and Joseph somehow made her feel quite sick.</p><p>Her mother flinched every time he entered the room she was in, and Polly didn’t know how much more of that she could take. It made her nervous. The sounds from their bedroom were sounds she’d never heard before, when they thought she was asleep, and - after some research on hiding her searches, hiding her searches, and searching - Polly was quite sure they weren’t the usual sounds one should hear from parent’s bedrooms either. If children should indeed hear anything. </p><p>But Polly didn’t know how to bring it up, any of it. She hadn’t heard her mother’s voice in months now, and she avoided her father at all costs.</p><p>One thing her research did tell her, though, was a lot about the online world.</p><p>She’d used a public computer to research some pretty… inappropriate things, especially for her age. She knew that, just like she knew what was going on in her house wasn’t normal. But that searching required shielding from the library computers’ own systems, and since Polly had agreed to the usage policy, she really didn’t want to get caught. It also meant breaking the firewalls that were in place to prevent accessing those kinds of sites.</p><p>Polly spent hours working out how to do it. Her success was a little disturbing, giving the nature of what she was looking up, but addictive, and suddenly she wanted to know how it all worked, this strange invisible virtual mine of information she could tap into with nothing but a keyboard.</p><p>She found out that only about four percent of the internet was visible, and the rest was hidden.</p><p>She found out how the internet worked, and about server farms and power sources and virtual storage being not virtual at all but just a very long way away.</p><p>She found out how to access that hidden part of the internet.</p><p>She found out about online transactions and the constant movement of money, and that reminded her of that first school report, when she’d discovered that tangible money was a promise rather than a physicality. She considered the fact that banks didn’t, as she’d always assumed, have coins and gold bars buried beneath them; their money was all hidden in the internet.</p><p>Polly spent most of her Christmas break researching and experimenting with online systems, practicing her Arabic, and studiously not thinking about what was going on between her parents.</p><p>She dreaded the day her report would arrive. Somehow, by some miracle, she was the first one home, and she scooped it off the doormat and hurried it to her room, tucking it - still sealed - beneath her mattress. Her parents never missed it; Christmas was a busy time, after all.</p><p>
  <em>Allahu akbar. Thank you, lord.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>When the school year was over, Polly had achieved a good conversational level of Arabic, and could pick out words on a page. Her writing was shaky and she struggled to split spoken sounds down into the subtle shapes of the language, but she didn’t mind that; she just liked jabbering away, and understanding when Javid replied.</p><p>The rest of her lessons hadn’t been enlightening. Mr Hutchinson was a wonderful teacher and he’d set her research projects and challenges of her own to complete, but Polly hadn’t learned very much of note this year. She was itching to branch out.</p><p>She ran all the way to her and Oliver’s meeting place on the first day of the summer holidays and he was already there, smiling the moment he saw her and her gold-rimmed glasses. He hugged her tightly and she felt him shaking.</p><p>“Ollie?” She prised him off. His eye was black.</p><p>“I hit him, and he left me alone!” He cried, smiling widely. “But, er, he hit me back the next week, and…well, often.”</p><p>Polly stared, then held him at arms’ length and examined him. His nose was crooked compared to last summer, and he’d lost a tooth next to his middle one. Polly was sure it had been an adult one.</p><p>She gathered him into a hug and pretended not to notice his tears. And then she sat next to him and listened as he talked himself hoarse, an arm wrapped around his shoulders.</p><p>She dragged him down to the library and sought out Mr Hutchinson’s friend, who, smiling, gave her another six-month pass. She then spent a few weeks of the summer hacking Oliver’s school’s website and writing his story all over it.</p><p>The school opened in the summer to investigate and Oliver’s tormentor was dismissed.</p><p>The story made the news. <em>Young boy expelled after bullying exposed in school website hack. Source unknown.</em> Oliver cut out every clipping he could find and kept every one.</p><p>Polly also practiced her Arabic every day. It was such a melodious language, she could just sit in the sun and chant it. She mused thoughtfully that she’d find it easier to write poetry in Arabic than in English.</p><p>While she was telling this to Oliver, chattering animatedly in both languages and waving her hands to illustrate her points, both sitting under the oak tree in the cathedral grounds, her father approached.</p><p>“What in god’s name are you saying, girl?” He spat, yanking her up by her collar and holding her - for she was still small and skinny for her age - a foot off the floor. Oliver scrambled up.</p><p>“She’s teaching me!” He defended helplessly. “It’s poetry!”</p><p>“It’s Islamic blasphemy.” Polly’s father dropped her. </p><p>She scrambled upright. “It was Arabic, dad, nothing religious, and anyway, Islam and Christianity have the same roots,” she explained earnestly.</p><p>The stinging slap still came as a surprise, although Polly thought on reflection it shouldn’t have. Oliver flinched and stepped back, and for some reason, that - the effect on her friend, the sudden parallels between her father’s actions and Oliver’s bully’s - hurt Polly more than the physical sting.</p><p>She turned burning eyes on her father and said, calmly, “I don’t think any religion’s god would consider your actions just or Christian. And I don’t want to live with it any more.”</p><p>She took Oliver’s hand and turned away, striding through the back door and into the house. She hurried to her room, scooped up the few non-religious books she’d been allowed to keep and a photo album, and left just as quickly, Oliver hurrying along behind her.</p><p>“Where are you going?” He asked.</p><p>“To yours, for now. If that’s okay.” </p><p>He nodded, falling in beside her, and they walked together through the darkening streets to his flat, which was nestled above a shop in a Victorian terrace.</p>
<hr/><p>Polly saw out the summer at Oliver’s. She rang her own home phone from his every day, never speaking when her father answered it, often simply listening to it ring out, but always hoping to one day get her mother.</p><p>She finally managed it, just a week before term was due to restart.</p><p>“Mum,” she breathed.</p><p>Her mother didn’t reply, and Polly could picture her, frozen, hand to her heart, terrified her father might reappear.</p><p>“Don’t talk, just listen. I’m not coming back. I love you, and you should get out too.” Polly took a deep breath. “I don’t know what happened to him and if it’s my fault I’m sorry, but you should leave.”</p><p>When no answer seemed forthcoming, Polly pulled the phone away from her ear and hurriedly dropped it on the stand, and then put her head in her hands.</p><p>“Polly.”</p><p>Oliver had grown almost a foot over the summer holidays. He loomed over her and made her jump. </p><p>“Hey,” she answered, feeling suddenly exhausted and far older than her years.</p><p>“Mum has a friend who does business with a school in Buckinghamshire. It’s… well, it’s rough around the edges. You won’t get any qualifications from it. But it caters for all ages, and you’d have the freedom to study whatever you wanted. And you could leave whenever you were ready.”</p><p>Polly stared at him and sagged onto his family’s sofa. “Buckinghamshire,” she said hollowly. The school sounded perfect, but… “Oh, god, Ollie. I have a few books to my name, and your old clothes that you’ve shot up out of. Nowhere to live, nothing to buy school stuff with, no way to get there.” She buried her head in her hands. “I’m screwed.”</p><p>He sat down beside her and turned her to face him with his fingers on her chin. “No. You’re smart. So get down to that library, and get cracking.”</p><p>She stared blankly at him. </p><p>“Come on, Pol. Hack, get yourself some money or whatever. Book a taxi and put it as ‘paid for’, I dunno.”</p><p>“But Ollie, that’s…bad.”</p><p>“Worse than what your dad did to you? What I think he’s been doing for a long time?”</p><p>Polly looked away, ashamed, and he pulled her chin back round again.</p><p>“Pol, come on. You stood up for me, this is me standing up for you. Means to an end, hm?”</p><p>Polly looked at him like she’d never seen him before. “You’ve grown up proper fast this summer,” she told him, and then she kissed him. </p><p>It was the first time she’d kissed him first, and his face almost broke with the smile he gave her. It was still two kids just kissing, nothing like what adults did, but Polly knew she shouldn’t know that and Ollie definitely didn’t, so she’d wait. As long as it took.</p><p>“You’ll be here, right? When I come back?” She hesitated. “Can I come back?”</p><p>He smiled, put a hand to her cheek. “Always.” He assured her, and she blinked back tears, thanking him in Arabic without thinking about it. He chuckled, kissed her again, and shooed her away to her research.</p>
<hr/><p>Polly spent a day furthering her understanding of the fiscal system.</p><p>Then, over the course of the week, she opened a bank account with a small deposit from an account with a particularly large balance in the name of one of the congregation.<em> I hate doing this, god, you know it, but your true followers would understand, I’m sure, if they knew what I was running from.</em> She put her true date of birth and the school’s address in the details sections, and scrambled the bank website’s algorithms to make it think the account had been opened with identity documents and parental permission when she was born. It was maturing.</p><p>Then, she ordered high school uniform for St. Trinian’s in the smallest available size. She registered herself to attend with an email to the headmistress, who never responded; Polly took this as a ‘yes’. Then she considered her journey.</p><p>Her parents had no idea where she was, but sooner or later, they’d go to Oliver’s. That was obvious.</p><p>So, she used her father’s card details - she’d memorised them over a year ago, testing her brain and its incredible capacity - to book a train to Chelmsford. This way, the trail led to Essex. South and then west, she thought. Longer than necessary, but a good ploy.</p><p>Then, she booked a taxi from Chelmsford to her new school with her new bank account, wincing at the price, which left her with only a few pounds. </p><p>Finally, she’d once again taken some money from the church donation box, which her father was emptying less and less often, and run down to the charity shops to find some luggage.</p><p>When the day came for her to leave, Polly donned her new uniform, hair up in its customary two buns and glasses firmly on, as they had been since the moment she moved in with Oliver’s family. She’d packed all of the clothes Oliver had grown out of in her suitcase with her books and photo album, and Oliver’s mother gifted her a notepad and pen with their phone number scribbled in the front cover, so she could ring from the school phone when she arrived. </p><p>Oliver wrapped her in a hug, holding her tightly, and assured her quietly that she’d rock it. She murmured back to him in her Arabic-English and asked him to deliver her letter to her old school before she climbed into the waiting taxi that would take her to Lincoln station. Oliver’s mother had booked it, and Polly thanked her over and over, overwhelmed by their kindness.</p><p>Javid, in place of his bubbly student, got a letter, written in shaky Arabic with smatterings of English that he could hear being said in her bright little voice, apologising for her absence and hoping that he’d continue her lessons by post and maybe, when she’d figured it out, video link. Thanking him for the last year and for giving her a way out. Promising to write again when she’d found out her new address and swearing him to secrecy.</p><p>And Polly arrived, exhausted, at her new school the day before term began, two years too early for high school, after navigating two trains, the London underground and a taxi by herself.</p><p>In years to come, it would be her proudest achievement, and that was certainly saying something.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Other New Girl</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After her makeover, Kelly felt incredibly confident for the first time in her life.</p><p>She looked good. She looked older. She had an identity, a style.</p><p>So when she left Margot’s, the older girl chuckling and shouting after her, “Work on that walk! Get some swing in your hips!”, she was pleased when Dan’s jaw dropped.</p><p>He stumbled after her towards the car, weaving, and she held her hand out. “Time for my first driving lesson. Pretty sure it would be safer than you getting behind that wheel,” she announced, and he handed his keys over mutely. Kelly did a mental celebration dance.</p><p>After she’d figured out the levers to move the seat, Dan told her to push the clutch down and turn the key.</p><p>“Which one’s the clutch?” She asked, looking at all the buttons on the dash board.</p><p>Dan’s left foot moved reflexively and Kelly pushed the far left pedal, turning the key and hearing the engine tick. She turned it further and it roared into life.</p><p>Somehow, that made her giggle.</p><p>Dan stared at her and shook his head, then talked her through taking the handbrake off and easing into movement without stalling. </p><p>Once they’d pulled away, Kelly mused, it was easy really. She’d worked out the pattern of changing gear, accelerating, and braking by watching Dan on the way up. This was easy, this was…freedom.</p><p>She was getting a car as soon as possible.</p><p>Fifteen minutes later, Dan pointed out the sign on the left, where she needed to turn. He reached over and flicked the indicator on while she moved down, down, down the gears.</p>
<hr/><p>The journey up the driveway was less smooth. She couldn’t keep her mouth closed.</p><p>The school had grounds stretching in every direction - hockey pitches, she noted with pleasure, and fields and what looked like a stable block. <em>Abandoned, though,</em> she added to herself.</p><p>And then there was the school building itself. Imposing, stone, taller than it was wide. </p><p>She mused thoughtfully that she’d never been a part of anything that big. Her house was of fifteen orphaned girls and the adults who looked after them, which was bigger than the average family but smaller than the average school, so not what most young people experienced. And when she went into the town on those illegal trips, she wasn’t part of anything; it was like looking through a glass window at the world around her.</p><p>She’d been in cafes, bars, pubs, restaurants, shops, and never bought anything. Never really gotten involved.</p><p>Hell, that was her first haircut that wasn’t done by one of the volunteers with some kitchen scissors.</p><p>She brought up a hand to stroke her smooth, suddenly-shorter hair. It hung comfortably to between her shoulder blades, and even that felt liberating.</p><p>It was going to be an interesting year.</p>
<hr/><p>When she eased the car to a juddering stop, slamming her foot on the clutch at the last moment and looking helplessly to a snoozing Dan for help, she was mortified to note that there was a woman standing on the steps to the school house.</p><p>Dan let out a snore when she elbowed him helplessly in the ribs and she rolled her eyes, then eyed the inside of the car, looking for anything that might help.</p><p>The figure from the steps approached, and Kelly sighed, realising she was caught. She opened the door.</p><p>“First time driving, girlie? It’s always the starting and stopping that cause the problems,” the woman told her cheerfully, leaning in. “Here, pull that up, and pop the gearstick in the wobbly loose bit in the middle - that’s it - and you can turn it off now.”</p><p>Kelly did, and relaxed her aching left leg. She looked over at Dan and sighed. “Two bottles of some alcopop thing, and he’s out for the count.” She shook her head. “Even I’m not that bad.”</p><p>Her companion laughed. “And you’ve had a lot of experience drinking, girlie, have you?”</p><p>Kelly shook her head. “Nope, but I had my first alcohol today, the same amount. And I feel… fine actually.”</p><p>The woman appraised her, buck teeth cutting into her lip slightly, and smiled. “You’re going to do well here, I think.” She stepped back, holding the door open. “Although, if you’ve just been to Margot’s, she probably spiked his. We’ll leave him there to sleep it off.”</p><p>Kelly slid down from the seat and straightened her skirt. “Right,” she agreed, and reached for the addressed piece of paper Dan had thrown onto the dashboard when they’d pulled out of Margot’s driveway. </p><p><em>Thanks, and thank Rick too,</em> she scribbled, and left it on his lap.</p>
<hr/><p>Laden down with all her things, and with the mystery woman not offering to help, Kelly struggled up the gravel driveway and bumped her case up the stairs.</p><p>The entrance hall was an eclectic mix of gothic decorations, shrunken skulls and wooden panels. An empty desk with a staircase behind it gave it a lonely feel.</p><p>Kelly followed the blonde through a door on the left, labelled ‘head’, and gulped. <em>Oops</em>.</p><p>“Now, girlie, come in, come in. Sit down.” The woman lifted the sofa cushions, then put them back down and patted the leather. Kelly left her things near the door and headed over cautiously, sinking into the material. “I’m Camilla Fritton, headmistress of St. Trinian’s. And who are you?”</p><p>“I’m Kelly Jones, miss.”</p><p>“Hm. And you’re joining us for high school, yes?”</p><p>Kelly nodded, sitting up straighter and squaring her shoulders.</p><p>Camilla laughed, and patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry about looking the part, dearie, age is but a number… or not, in your case, hm? You’ll find your feet soon enough.” She smiled down at Kelly, eyes sparking with interest. “Margot called the moment you left, said you were a little firecracker. I knew I was right to take you when your friend Rick rang.”</p><p>Kelly swallowed, not sure what to say. </p><p>“Don’t worry, girlie, we don’t need to think about the past any more, hm? This is a new start.”</p><p>Kelly nodded. “I, er, wondered if you knew what I need to do now. To register. As, you know, a real person.”</p><p>“My dear girl, I wouldn’t have a clue.” Camilla considered her for a moment. “But you don’t need to be registered to be a pupil here, so perhaps we leave it for now, hm? When it comes to you graduating and needing to exist in the world of work, we’ll look at it, but for now… I imagine it could be quite useful for you.”</p><p>Kelly couldn’t imagine why it might be useful, but this woman’s silk blouses and flowery skirts weren’t fooling her, and the cabinet in the corner covered in cut crystal glasses and various amber shades of liquid only heightened her wariness of this headteacher. She simply agreed.</p><p>“Right, let’s get you settled in, shall we? Term starts tomorrow, and I’m sure you’d like to explore beforehand.”</p>
<hr/><p>An hour later, Kelly had looked in every classroom St. Trinian’s had, met three teachers who all seemed a little mad, and taken all her luggage along for the whole ride. She was exhausted.</p><p>Finally, Miss Fritton showed her to the dorms, which nestled right under the eaves on the top floor. The long, low, L-shaped room was cosy, but bland.</p><p>“So, I’d suggest you pick a bed in this area,” Camilla told her, waving dramatically at the area in the corner of the ‘L’. “The first years tend to get sandwiched between the other tribes, as a loud, colourful, cheerful sort of buffer.”</p><p>“Tribes?” Kelly asked, slowly making her way to the corner and considering the skylights and the bizarre mix of square and round windows in the walls.</p><p>“The girls here are quite…clique-y. After first year, everyone branches into their preferred… group.” Camilla laughed her high, girlish, breathy giggle. It made Kelly’s skin crawl. “You’ll see, when they all arrive in the morning.” She turned away, heading for the door. “I’ll let you settle in, girlie. See you at dinner!”</p><p>Kelly frowned. She had no idea when dinner was, and she didn’t remember seeing a dining room on the tour.</p><p>“If this is first years…of high school…” she mused aloud, glancing round and mentally adding up the number of beds. “Where are the lower years?”</p>
<hr/><p>Polly’s taxi driver kept up a babble of conversation all the way from Chelmsford to St. Trinian’s. She was tired and irritable and she missed Oliver, and she really didn’t want to talk to him, but he didn’t take the hint, and didn’t seem at all perturbed to be driving a young girl travelling alone either.</p><p>“It’s booked and paid for, you’ve got the booking ID, s’all I need,” he’d told her cheerfully before hoisting her suitcase into the boot.</p><p>Now it was dusk, and they’d left the main road and were whipping along leafy back lanes, and Polly realised she felt a little sick, but she wasn’t sure if it was nerves, or the car journey, or the road type, or perhaps the fact she hadn’t eaten since setting off at just after eight that morning.</p><p>She closed her eyes and tried to relax.</p>
<hr/><p>“Miss, we’re here,” her driver told her. “Not sure what this punk thinks he’s doin’, parkin’ like that, but nevermind.”</p><p>Polly opened her eyes, suddenly on high alert, completely amazed she’d managed to fall asleep.</p><p>Her driver was already out of the car and pulling her case from the boot, and she scrambled out to join him, staring up at the looming building with something akin to dread boiling in her stomach.</p><p>Her schools had all been quite modern in comparison. Low, newish buildings with big windows, a separate and well-kept field, a playground. This was a stone manor house, covered in ivy and surrounded by forest and fields. It looked less like a school and more like an old house in need of National Trust intervention.</p><p>Polly thanked her driver and asked him for the time. </p><p>“Seven-thirty, miss. You might have missed dinner.”</p><p>Polly sighed and skirted around the abandoned car with its sleeping passenger on her way to the stone steps.</p>
<hr/><p>“Hello, girlie. I wasn’t expecting you.”</p><p>Polly jumped and spun around. A tall, blonde, buck-toothed woman stood in a doorway to the left, where she hadn’t even looked, she was so busy staring at the size of the entrance hall and the staircase.</p><p><em>And the skulls,</em> her mind whispered, but she pushed that thought away. There <em>had</em> to be a logical explanation for that particular display.</p><p>“I, er, I emailed,” Polly replied lamely, making no move to go any closer.</p><p>“Ah. I haven’t checked those in… hm. Too long.” The woman stepped forwards, smiling serenely, crow’s feet crinkling her eyes. Polly supposed she seemed friendly enough, but there was a sense of the dramatic around her, and Polly didn’t do drama.</p><p>“What’s your name, then, my dear?”</p><p>“Polly. Polly Cole.”</p><p>“Well, Polly Cole, I’m Miss Fritton. Headmistress of this institution of learning.”</p><p>Polly smiled, thinking privately that she hoped the learning was more promising than the headteacher’s fashion sense, and waved awkwardly.</p><p>Camilla took in the girl’s perfect uniform, gold glasses, small stature, and second-hand suitcase. She raised her eyebrows. “High school, girlie, or primary?”</p><p>Polly scowled. “I’ve grown out of primary school. I need to pursue the parts of education I’m interested in, not the parts the stupid rules say I have to.”</p><p>Camilla’s eyebrows disappeared into her thinning fringe. “High school it is then. Good. I’ll take you up to the dorms, and the other new addition can show you around.”</p><p>Polly wanted to ask how the other new girl would know the way around if she was also new, but the words died on her lips as she hurried to follow the surprisingly fast-moving headmistress up the huge staircase.</p>
<hr/><p>Polly stood, panting, in the doorway. The stairs up to the dorm itself were narrow, with a ninety-degree bend near the top, and her new headmistress hadn’t been in the slightest bit helpful with her suitcase.</p><p>Catching her breath, she peered into the dorm room. It was low, with skylights in showing the streaky sky. The stars would be out soon. </p><p>There were a lot of beds, and it looked like the room bent around at the end too. Polly gulped, wondering which one she should choose. She’d never shared a room before.</p><p>“Hi.” A voice loomed out of the gloom, and Polly jumped, squinting.</p><p>A figure appeared from around the corner, and walked slowly towards her. The girl was quite short, Polly realised, probably only the same height as she was, but she looked older. Much older. Her lips were stained a dark colour, her hair was glossy and straight, and her skirt was fitted tight around her, rather than loose and flowing like Polly’s. She was even wearing kitten heels.</p><p>“Er, hi.” Polly dropped her eyes to the floor. “I’m, er, I’m Polly.”</p><p>“Kelly.” They regarded one another for a moment, Polly curiously, Kelly coolly. “Come on. Apparently first years are always around here,” Kelly finally said, and turned away, leading Polly towards the corner and indicating a section of beds.</p><p>Polly, without thinking, exclaimed, “You’re a first year?”</p><p>Kelly smiled, showing perfect white teeth, and leaned a hip against a beam that came down next to the bed she’d chosen. “Yes,” she replied simply, and turned away.</p><p>Polly unpacked the rest of her uniform slowly, hanging it in the wardrobe next to her bed, her head buzzing with questions about this strange girl she’d just met. She wouldn’t ask them, though. She didn’t want to answer the same ones herself.</p><p>She left Oliver’s clothes in her suitcase and pushed it under her bed, then sat down heavily. Kelly was watching her with dark eyes, and it was beginning to unsettle her.</p><p>Finally, she settled on a neutral question, and asked, “Did I miss dinner?”</p><p>“Yes. I did too,” Kelly replied. “I have no idea where the dining room is.”</p><p>Polly sighed, her stomach grumbling quietly. “Miss Fritton told me you’d show me around,” she said heavily, and Kelly laughed.</p><p>“She’s an odd one, that woman. I had a whistle-stop tour about three hours before you arrived. I haven’t got a bloody clue,” she replied, and bent to her suitcase, feeling around inside. She produced a box of cereal bars, and handed Polly a couple, also opening one herself. </p><p>“Th- thank you,” Polly stammered, surprised by the gesture. Kelly stared at her, and she looked away, opening one and taking a bite.</p><p>“You not used to getting fed?” Kelly asked, and Polly couldn’t untangle her tone. She wasn’t being sarcastic, exactly, but there was no pity in her question either. She wondered, not for the first time, what Kelly’s own background was.</p><p>“No, I just didn’t pack any lunch. I’ve been travelling since this morning,” she hedged, staying as neutral as possible.</p><p>“You’d travel all day to come to a school like this?”</p><p>Polly shrugged self-consciously. “Guess so. Wouldn’t you?”</p><p>Kelly chewed thoughtfully, eyes narrowed at the girl. “Guess so,” she agreed. </p>
<hr/><p>Neither of the girls slept very well. They mutually agreed that a tour of the school in the dark, when Kelly didn’t really know her way around anyway, was foolish, and after they’d each eaten their fill of cereal bars, they simply waited to feel tired.</p><p>Kelly was intrigued by this Polly. Her sense of age wasn’t strong, given she didn’t know her own and the girls she’d grown up with were all different ages, but she was sure this redheaded twiglet was too young to be going to high school. Her delicate gold glasses were unusual for a child, but her bizarre double-bun hairstyle made her seem more immature; she was a walking contradiction. Kelly could almost hear the questions buzzing around in her head, but she didn’t ask any, and Kelly didn’t plan to volunteer any information, so they reached a stalemate.</p><p>From observing, Kelly thought this girl probably hadn’t boarded before. When they agreed it was time for bed, she turned away bashfully as Kelly undressed, and remained facing away, wriggling around inside her too-big uniform to try and dress in her stripy pyjamas without showing any skin. She jumped when she turned back to find Kelly, shorts and old t-shirt already on, watching her hang her blazer carefully.</p><p>Polly, for her part, couldn’t decide whether Kelly was used to this environment, used to change and therefore unfazed by it, or just not used to people. Either way, her dark, made-up eyes barely blinked, and rarely looked away from Polly, who found the attention disconcerting. At home, attention usually meant a slap; at school, it was because of her intelligence; with Oliver, it was because he found her fascinating, and he learned from her. With Kelly, it seemed to be without strings, and without reason, and it worried her.</p><p>Kelly also seemed very comfortable in her own skin. Not that she wasn’t, per se, but the church had taught her to cover up, and her school uniform was hardly exposing. The way Kelly sat on her bed, short shorts and unbuttoned t-shirt on, showing a sliver of skin between them, took Polly by surprise, and she tugged uncomfortably on the too-big trousers and long-sleeve, button-up shirt set of striped pyjamas that Oliver had grown out of that summer.</p><p>Both girls lay awake for a long time that night. Kelly was calmly retracing the steps she’d taken on the tour, trying to solidify the shape of the school in her mind; Polly was thinking about her mother, wondering whether her father had noticed the price of the train ticket leaving his account, whether her mother would suffer for it. Whether she’d had the strength to leave. </p><p>Eventually, Polly sighed, sat up, and pulled her hair loose from its plaited buns. Kelly turned onto her side. “Alright?” She asked quietly. </p><p>Polly nodded, not that Kelly could see it in the dark. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Just can’t sleep.”</p><p>Kelly smiled. “Me neither. Wonder what tomorrow will be like,” she replied, aware even as she spoke that this wasn’t like her; talking, opening up. She figured Polly needed it.</p><p>“I just hope we can find breakfast,” Polly joked weakly, and Kelly laughed.</p><p>“Would be a good start,” she agreed. </p>
<hr/><p>After that, they both drifted off slowly. </p><p>Kelly woke first. She’d chosen a bed directly under a skylight on the east-facing side, for exactly this reason. She’d always been quite good at working out which direction the sun rose and set in from any given place, and now - she estimated about half past six - she had her own alarm clock.</p><p>She turned onto her side to look at Polly, who was curled on her side, sleeping soundly. Her glasses were on the table next to her bed, and in sleep, without them on, she looked even younger. Kelly was certain she was too young for high school, anyway.</p><p>Her pillow was smeared with makeup, and she quietly turned it over, reaching for the mirror and various sticks and brushes that Margot had sent her away with. She scrubbed at the messy parts with a wetwipe and reapplied the rest, still laying on her bed. It wasn’t a bad effort, she decided, examining her reflection in the tiny handheld compact. Not for a first try.</p><p>She tucked the mirror away again and smoothed down her hair, which was still straight. Until they found the showers, she wouldn’t need to use the straighteners she’d accepted unwillingly from Margot, who’d insisted they were last year’s model anyway and she couldn’t be seen to have them in her house, or the Queen Bees would disown her.</p><p>Then she relaxed again onto her pillow, careful not to undo any of the work she’d just done, and watched Polly sleep, tracing the freckles on her face and noting the crease between her eyebrows. There was no mark on her nose where people who wore glasses usually had one. They must be very comfortable.</p>
<hr/><p>Polly finally stirred an hour later, and suddenly sat bolt-upright. “Dad, the mattins bells!” She cried, and blinked. Kelly, who had no idea what that meant, said nothing. </p><p>Polly relaxed as the previous day’s events came back to her, and the quiet sunshine made sense. She scrubbed at her eyes and looked over to where Kelly should be, meeting dark eyes with not a trace of sleep in them. She blushed. “Sorry,” she mumbled, picking at the duvet.<br/>
“You didn’t wake me,” Kelly replied. Polly appraised her and realised that she still looked perfect. How did she do that? Polly wiped self-consciously at her face and mouth, and ran a hand through her wild hair. “What’s mattins?” Kelly asked curiously, watching as Polly’s wild red hair floated around her like a fine kind of halo. It was curly, and somehow Kelly hadn’t expected that.</p><p>Polly stared incredulously at the girl beside her, who’d seemed so self-assured and put together since the moment they’d met. “It- it’s the dawn church service,” she replied, slightly stunned. </p><p>“Ah,” Kelly replied. “Never did the church thing much, me.” And with that tiny personal bombshell dropped, which Polly hurriedly stored, already sure there wouldn’t be many, Kelly threw back the duvet, swung her legs out of bed and stood, stretching like a cat. The sun shimmered on her long hair, and her stomach contracted, starkly white between her top and shorts.</p><p>Polly looked away, blushing. </p><p>It took Kelly only a few moments to dress. Her uniform was ready from the day before, her make up and hair already done. Polly took longer to tame her wild curls into plaits and pile them back into her customary buns. </p><p>“Why not leave it down?” Kelly asked curiously, and Polly swallowed and shrugged. </p><p>“It’s pretty wild. Easier like this,” she said as casually as she could. She couldn’t tell whether Kelly believed her.</p><p>“Well, the wild look suits you,” Kelly announced. “If you ever change your mind.”</p><p>Polly coloured and turned her back on Kelly, undoing the buttons on her pyjamas and reaching for her uniform.</p><p>When she was ready, she turned back to find a slightly taller Kelly - heels now donned - running her tongue over her teeth and grimacing.</p><p>“Think it’s time to find the bathrooms. My teeth feel gross,” she grumbled. Polly laughed, snatching up her toothbrush in agreement.</p><p>Across the landing, where the staircase bent ninety degrees the other way as well, Kelly found another room in the eaves. It was empty, and much smaller than the dorm - maybe a quarter of the size, maybe even less. </p><p>The girls proceeded down the stairs, and Kelly frowned. Surely the bathrooms wouldn’t be so far from the dorms? Would they really have to carry all their wash kit backwards and forwards along corridors of classrooms every morning or night?</p><p>She voiced that opinion to Polly, who shrugged. Kelly was certain, then, that Polly had never lived in a shared environment before - if the ‘dad’ comment from that morning wasn’t enough to convince her.</p><p>At the bottom of the dorm stairs, the first classrooms began. The landing was a square, with stairs in the middle and further corridors spreading off in each direction. Some of the classrooms on this level looked more like storerooms, with desks piled on desks and stacks of chairs filling the whole place. It seemed like such a waste. </p><p>At the end of the first corridor, there was a completely empty room. Kelly shook her head, mystified.</p><p>The girls trudged back to the square, and headed off down the second corridor.</p><p>These classrooms looked more useable. There were chalkboards and teachers’ desks, and a few office-like spaces. But still no showers.</p><p>The third corridor was very short, and ended in stairs. Before that, there were two rooms; ‘head girl’ - this door was locked, for some reason - and ‘spare’. This room was made up like a bedroom, and Kelly suggested sensibly that it was for visiting staff, relatives or students. </p><p>The stairs led up to a tiled bathroom, with a row of sinks and mirrors, a line of toilet cubicles, and - to Polly’s horror - a dozen or more showers behind a glass screen.</p><p>“But they’re not separate!” Polly cried.</p><p>Kelly raised a single eyebrow. “Should they be?” She asked. This was normal to her.</p><p>Polly decided that Kelly had always been in a shared school environment, and always boarded. She must’ve been.</p><p>“Er… I guess not,” she replied weakly, turning away. </p><p>Kelly put a calming hand on her shoulder. “It’s all girls, Polly. We’re all the same.”</p><p>Polly bit her lip and nodded, and stalked over to the sinks to brush her teeth.</p>
<hr/><p>On the way back to the dorms to drop off their toothbrushes, they stuck their heads down the fourth corridor. All the classrooms along that one seemed to be science labs; Polly excitedly pointed out various elements of equipment that Kelly had never heard of. Kelly privately thought that some of the chemicals - “caution: irritant” and “beware: corrosive” - should be stored more securely, and wondered whether the science labs were perhaps so high up in the school so that the bottom floors were safe, should anything go wrong.</p><p>The next floor down had a galleried landing, the same size and shape as the one above but with the impressive staircase that led down to reception. Polly ran her hand along the handrail, and wondered aloud if anyone had ever fallen over it. </p><p>Kelly reached past her and rattled one of the balusters, which wobbled dangerously in its housing. “I’d say so, yeah,” she replied matter-of-factly, and carried on down the corridor ahead.</p><p>The girls found all sorts of different types of classrooms coming off that level. Some of them were clearly art rooms, but the rest seemed fairly standard. It was a maze of interconnecting corridors and shortcuts, and some rooms had doors between them. Although both girls built up solid mental maps of the levels and the rooms, none of the classrooms seemed to be numbered or named.</p><p>Re-emerging at the top of the stairs, they looked at each other. “Still no dining room,” Kelly pointed out. Polly shrugged.</p><p>“Must be down there,” she decided, pointing.</p><p>They set off down the stairs together, and Kelly was the first to spot blonde hair at the desk at the bottom. She nudged Polly and put a finger to her lips, pointing.</p><p>They got to the bottom without being noticed, and Kelly skirted the impressive wooden newel post quietly. </p><p>A very young woman, with large hoop earrings, half-up hair and a bright blue blazer-style jacket, was popping her chewing gum at the desk and squinting at an instruction manual for the intercom system on the desk.</p><p>It only had one button.</p><p>Kelly rolled her eyes and stepped forward. “Hi,” she said confidently.</p><p>The woman jumped and looked up. “Hi yourself,” she replied, looking Kelly up and down. Kelly cocked her hip impatiently, waiting for the not-so-subtle once-over to be finished. “I’m Beverley, new receptionist.”</p><p>Kelly smiled. “So you wouldn’t know where to find the dining room?”</p><p>Beverley shook her head. “Not a clue, luv.”</p><p>She looked back at her instruction manual, frowning, and Kelly turned away, holding in her laughter. Polly followed her to the heavy wooden door almost opposite the bottom of the stairs, and they heaved it open. It squeaked with disuse.</p><p>It was the staff room, by the looks of things; there was a smog of cigarette smoke and a pool table. Opposite, a door to the outside stood open. Thankfully, it was empty, and they hurriedly pulled the door shut again, exchanging nervous glances.</p><p>To their right, three more heavy wooden doors stood in an alcove. Kelly shrugged and headed for them. </p><p>The middle one seemed to be a common room of sorts, with what looked like an old church pew, a collection of sofas, and lockers strewn around it. From the smell - something rotten mixed with strong bleach - Polly had a feeling something had been left there over summer.</p><p>The door on the right was locked. </p><p>On the left, the door led to a corridor. Kelly looked over her shoulder at Polly, who shrugged back, and they ventured quietly down it. Classroom after classroom led off it, and they peered through the glass in the doors at each one. They reminded Polly of her old school.<br/>
“I think this is the younger years’ part,” she said to Kelly. “Primary colours, kiddie handwriting on the posters…” She chose not to mention that her primary schools didn’t learn about how guillotines worked, or the best way to use sand as a weapon.</p><p>Kelly nodded her agreement. <em>So this is what a primary school looks like</em>, she mused. </p><p>The end of the corridor opened onto the gardens, and they stepped out, rounding the wall on the left to see where it jutted back inwards to the staircase.</p><p>It didn’t.</p><p>“We must have missed a bit, then,” Kelly thought aloud, and Polly nodded. </p><p>They headed back in the same way, down the quiet corridor, Kelly’s heels clicking on the parquet floor.</p><p>They hadn’t missed any doors, but there was another downwards-facing staircase. Polly led the way this time, rounding the corners and finding at the bottom a corridor.</p><p>There was a classroom right there, which was quite nondescript, and then a choice of direction. They went left first, and found more primary school classrooms, some of which didn’t have windows, and then - round a right-angle bend - an empty dormitory. It was very dark, and had flat skylights in the ceiling. “We’re underground. This dorm must be for lower school,” Polly surmised, and Kelly nodded. There was a bathroom next door and a series of teacher’s bedrooms opposite, along the length of the corridor.</p><p>“We have quite a lot of freedom, compared,” Kelly said quietly, inclining her head at the name plaques.</p><p>Back the way they’d come, they found that the corridor to the right of the stairs was short. A door on the left led to a very long, thin room that seemed to have no use whatsoever, and a door on the right led to yet another staircase; a spiral one, no less.</p><p>They climbed it and emerged in the corner of a conservatory of sorts, nestled between two stone wings of the schoolhouse. Polly’s mental map told her that the view over the sports field was the same as the one from the bottom of the upper school dorm stairs, and the main staircase was directly behind them, with a wing of the lower school to their right and the headmistress’s office - and whatever was beyond it - to their left. That flipped, of course, when she turned to face the room and the school, rather than the field.</p><p>“Ah, girls, you found us!” Camilla’s high voice floated over to them, and they both looked up to see her, sat at a high table surrounded by other adults, tucking into a full English breakfast.</p><p>Where the glass extension met the stone building, the metal set-up of a catering kitchen melded the two. It was an open kitchen of sorts, and Kelly and Polly raised their eyebrows at one another.</p><p>“Help yourselves, we cook on a rota system here, so some days are better than others and breakfast is always the best,” Camilla laughed girlishly, chivying them along to where all the elements of the meal were sat in various metal containers, most still steaming.</p><p>Both girls accepted the plates thrust into their hands and moved along the line, ladling various foods onto their plates and collecting cutlery from the end. Polly hovered until Kelly was finished, and then they both looked at all the tables spread around the room.</p><p>“Come, join us. The first and only time you’ll sit at this table for a meal,” a commanding voice rang out. Polly jumped, but Kelly walked towards its owner, a blonde woman - was everyone here blonde? - wearing camo trousers and a thick green jumper. </p><p>Seated, they began to eat, and Polly was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the food. She realised she was ravenous, and concentrated hard on not inhaling her meal.</p><p>Kelly, who was used to eating collectively like this, took her time, observing everyone. They weren’t called upon to speak or introduce themselves, and the conversation continued to flow around them, so she simply listened and watched.</p><p>She couldn’t get a handle on the headteacher. She was girlish in her mannerisms, but older in her face, and quite masculine in her speech patterns and word choices. She didn’t strike Kelly as a teacher at all.</p><p>The woman who had called them over clearly felt she had something to prove; who to, Kelly wasn’t sure. Herself, perhaps. She was eating out of her own metal pots with foldaway handles, and there was a camouflage-patterned hat on the table next to her elbow; from her limited experience with books and films, Kelly would suggest she was playing at being military. </p><p>Beside her, a woman in a nurse’s outfit and thick-rimmed plastic glasses was drinking more than she was eating, and Kelly wasn’t sure what was in her mug but it wasn’t coffee. Her cheeks were ruddy.</p><p>Next was a nervous-looking man with a piled plate and very little hair, who blinked worriedly at her through thick glasses. He had tomato sauce from the beans in his moustache, and spent most of the meal looking at the woman sat across from him, who never spoke; she had a book open on the table, filled with words Kelly didn’t recognise, although some were similar to French. Her hair was dark, her skin olive, and she looked glamourous - like a celebrity. She smoked a cigarette through a strange plastic contraption, and never touched a plate.</p><p>Beside this woman, who Kelly would swear was foreign, sat a surprisingly young man with impressive arm muscles straining the sleeves of his short-sleeved shirt. His chest was big too, and Kelly thought it likely that his stomach was solid below the table, despite the fact that he ate no less than three platefuls of breakfast. He had the chiselled features and smooth hands of a model. It didn’t escape her notice that Camilla’s laugh got more breathy when speaking to him - not that he spoke much - and her hands regularly strayed to his arms. There was also a splash of what might have been pinkish paint on his neck - at least, Kelly hoped it was paint, because if it was lipstick she’d be put right off her breakfast. Camilla was discussing a ‘shoot’ with him, though, and reminding him that she was nearly out of the charcoal oil paint she got through so quickly, if he’d please put an order in, so paint was a viable possibility.</p><p>An older woman with grey hair, a cardigan and a pearl necklace looked so out of place among the motley crew, Kelly stared. She stared back, then smirked, and continued eating breakfast. Kelly looked forward to her lesson; whatever it was, she got the impression there were hidden facets to this teacher, or she wouldn’t be here. </p><p>Beside her, a woman of a similar age, but with dark hair and two pigtails, almost vibrated in her seat. She had energy rolling off her. If she had to bet, Kelly would put her with the younger years; indeed, when she’d put down her knife and fork, she hummed a nursery rhyme at twice the normal speed under her breath, to which her neighbour rolled her eyes.</p><p>The next plate had some sort of experiment going on on it; all the food had been chopped, and the plate’s owner was mixing each item with each other item, mouthful by mouthful, testing flavour mixtures and muttering to herself. Eventually, she grunted, “Cleaver, did you cook with herbs?”</p><p>The military woman glared at her. “In a war zone, there are no herbs,” she snapped. </p><p>The original speaker nodded. “Thought so,” she sighed, and smudged the soot on her face as she wiped her mouth. Kelly wondered whether she’d ever found anything nesting in her hair; something certainly could, for it looked like it had never seen a brush, or perhaps like something had recently exploded in her face.</p><p>There was a grizzly, overweight man in a flat cap at the end of the table. His hands were filthy and his stubble was almost long enough to call a beard; long grey hair fell tangled down his back, and he ate slowly; Kelly could hear his breath catching in his lungs from her position six seats away, and thought he sounded terrible, like the time little Tamara had had an asthma attack in the yard.</p><p>Lastly, there was someone opposite this ill man. Kelly wasn’t certain which gender; their grey hair was short at the sides and quiffed on top, and the v-neck jumper over buttoned shirt didn’t give it away. They looked like an ageing biker or rockstar, Kelly thought, and the ill man, between puffs of breath and mouthfuls of food, was complaining to them about tyre tracks in his flower beds.</p><p>Both girls finished their meals at a similar time, and exchanged a look. Camilla didn’t notice, but the foreign-looking woman did, and stood, beckoning. The girls picked up their plates and followed. </p><p>“Ze, ah, implements go ‘ere, and ze…ze…”</p><p>“Plates?” Polly asked, holding hers up.</p><p>“Si, oui, zey go ‘ere.”</p><p>“Parlez-vous Francais?” Kelly asked as she gently laid her plate in the soapy water, catching the <em>oui</em>.</p><p>The woman stared at her and smiled widely. “Oui, je parle beaucoup de langues, mais l’anglais n’est pas si bon,” she replied excitedly. </p><p>“J’ai appris pour seulement un an,” Kelly said hurriedly, stumbling slightly over her pronunciation in her rush to not end up trying to understand reams of French. On reflection, she was certain her grammar was terrible in that rushed sentence, but she didn’t suppose it mattered all that much.</p><p>She was rewarded with a sunny smile. “Tout est mieux que rien,” the woman replied, shrugging, and Kelly understood the sentiment if not the exact meaning. She smiled hesitantly, and then cleared her throat.</p><p>“We, er, we should go,” she suggested to Polly, who nodded, relieved.</p><p>“What did she say to you?” Polly hissed as they left the dining room, waving awkwardly back to Camilla’s enthusiastic, dramatic send-off.</p><p>“Who, the foreign woman? Just that she speaks a lot of languages, but she’s not so good with English,” Kelly answered, not slowing down. “I guess she’s the languages teacher, but I’m not completely sure what the rest of them do.”</p><p>Polly sighed, thinking of Javid. “I wonder what languages she teaches,” she said wistfully, and then hurried to catch up with Kelly’s clicking heels. “I think the crazy hair lady was the science teacher, and the guy at the end, the grubby one, I think he’s a gardener. And obviously the nurse, I suppose it makes sense there’s one on site.”</p><p>Kelly nodded her agreement, surprised at how much Polly had taken in while eating with such gusto. “Then there’s Cleaver, the one who called us over. God knows what she teaches. And I reckon the young guy is an art teacher, or maybe just works in the art department. And the woman with the two pigtails, I think she’s in charge of the younger years.”</p><p>Polly scrunched her face up, trying to remember all the faces. “Hm. There are lots of people to get used to, but it still doesn’t seem like a very big staff team to run the whole place, does it?”</p><p>Kelly shook her head mutely as they arrived back in the main entrance. She glanced at the open front doors, and asked, “Do you fancy getting familiar with the outside space?”</p><p>Polly, who was thinking about Oliver, chewed her lip. “I might see if I can find any computers,” she replied, “or a phone, at least. But go ahead.”</p><p>Kelly raised an eyebrow at her, silently wondering who she needed to contact, and shrugged. “Catch up with you later,” she said, smiling. Polly nodded and turned to go, and Kelly realised something. “Hey, Polly,” she called. “You’re not wearing your glasses.”</p><p>Polly put a hand up to her face and sighed. “So I’m not,” she said, “thanks. I’ll go via the dorms and pick them up.” She turned and hurried up the grand staircase.</p><p>Kelly turned thoughtfully and passed the now-sleeping Beverley. <em>Good start to the new job,</em> she thought.<em> Although given the state of the teachers in there, she’ll go far</em>.</p>
<hr/><p>It took her an hour to wander the grounds. </p><p>She descended the front steps and headed off across the fields. On her right there was the hockey pitch she’d noticed on the way in, and beyond it, a metal stand, which she supposed was seating for sports fixtures. It didn’t look too safe.</p><p>The pitch was sandwiched between the school and the the tumble-down stable block she’d noticed before, which actually had its own sort of yard, as if there had once been a farmer renting here from the manor house. In fact, it looked more like a low hangar than a stable. She didn’t dare go in, but she did peer through the not-quite-closed door, and it was huge and open inside. Probably why it’s falling down - someone’s knocked out the internal walls, she thought to herself.</p><p>The fields were all roughly four times the size of the hockey pitch, split by low hedges and uncut sections of grass, and each one had a large shed in it. Opening one cautiously, Kelly noted a lawnmower, some pruning shears and a few other gardening implements, but also - to her surprise - a quad bike, two motor bikes, a whole armoury of (unsecured, lethal-looking) rifles with scopes, and right at the back, a wardrobe. Baffled, she shook her head and retreated, closing the door quietly behind her.</p><p>There were some beautiful trees in some of the fields, and in others, some randomly-wild tussocks of grass. It was like the gardener had missed bits - although, Kelly thought, if his breathing was anything to go by this morning, he probably had. </p><p>Closer to the school, next to the well-mown hockey pitch with its white paint lines, and between the curving roads and turning circles, there were some well-maintained flower beds and artfully-cut hedges, and some beautiful lawns. Kelly wondered idly if they would stay this way, or if perhaps this was due to the summer holidays, where there were no students to ruin it. It certainly made the school look smart, along with the statues and stone decorations of a proper ornamental garden, and Kelly wondered if this used to be the back of the house, once. </p><p>Squinting into the distance, Kelly tried to work out how far the boundary of the school actually went. There was certainly some forest on the school grounds, for they’d driven through it to get here; the sign marking the entrance to the school was some two miles from the front door, she was sure, along a tarmac road under leaning trees.</p><p>She headed left of the front stairs to get round the back, walking between the school and the hockey pitch, noting the shape and size of the headmistress’s area. She tried not to peer in too obviously through windows, but there seemed to be a lot of artwork in the headmistress’s rooms. Perhaps she was a collector. She also thought she could see a gym at basement level, through the foot-height windows, but she wasn’t sure how to access it from inside. She passed the dining room conservatory area, seeing more fields in the distance to the left and directly behind the school, and crunched across the gravel, past fountains and a stone staircase; the staircase seemed to grant access directly onto the floor below the dorms. </p><p>At the back of the school, the gravel was replaced by stone flags, which surrounded an area of tarmac that could pass as a playground, with coloured paint figures and shapes on the floor and sandpits dotted throughout. Closest to her, the patio had windows in that looked down into the lower school dorms; Kelly hoped these were covered when the dorm was occupied. She walked over them, through the playground, and onto the other side, where another external staircase led to the floor above Beverley’s desk; Kelly realised they were probably fire exits. </p><p>As she rounded the corner to the other side of the school, she realised she must be standing on - or at least near - the odd empty underground room, that was long and thin. Here, there was a Victorian extension to the Georgian building - red brick, and nestled into a space very similar to the one the dining area occupied, opposite. The windows were grimy and there was an open courtyard with strings crisscrossing over it; Kelly couldn’t imagine what it might be for.</p><p>This was the closest the school boundary came to the building, she realised. There was another red brick wall, just a bit further on, and there was a gate in it, almost completely overgrown. Then the boundary obviously bent away again, unless this wall simply split up areas of the grounds; the wall wasn’t visible for long.The gravel began again here, and the architecture became gothic, reminding Kelly of the church the volunteers had taken her to just once. She walked through the area quite quickly. There were gates here, which stood open; it seemed to be the final destination of the road that split to the right where the one to the stables went left.</p><p>Finally back where she started at the front of the school, Kelly stepped back, looking up at the other floors and visualising the corresponding areas inside. The building’s sides, once you really looked, weren’t as sheer as first impressions suggested; there were lumps, bumps, bay windows and balconies all over, and chimneys in surprising places.</p><p>At the top, Kelly was expecting to see a roof shape that corresponded to the dorm’s ceilings, but to her surprise, there were flat bits and extra windows in various unexpected places across the roof. There were even a couple of low towers, and she raised an eyebrow, making a mental note to look into the possibility of a floor above their dorms.</p><p>Kelly decided it would take a while to explore properly, and called it a day, heading back inside. She wondered whether Polly had found what she was looking for, and what time it was, and how long it would be until the other students arrived; most of all, though, she wondered what life would be like here, and who Kelly Jones would become. Who she could be, now.</p>
<hr/><p>Polly was rubbing the bridge of her nose. She’d found no trace of any kind of technology, except the plug sockets from which to power various devices, which was something, she supposed. She’d searched everywhere she dared to find some kind of internet-enabled device, and found nothing. However, she had explored the science labs more closely and discovered a huge variety of chemicals which should make for some interesting experiments, and she’d discovered a library in the gap in her mental map on the floor above reception; it was dusty, but useable, and well-stocked with older titles. There was even a section dedicated to the ‘Fritton Archive’, which had Polly wondering just how long the current headmistress had been there.</p><p>She’d just decided to ask Beverley if there was a phone she could use, but, remembering the conversation the dizzy new receptionist had had with Kelly that morning, she wasn’t sure how much good it would do.</p><p>As she reached the bottom of the grand staircase, Kelly came in through the front door. </p><p>“Hey,” Polly called, smiling. Kelly lifted a hand in greeting. </p><p>“It’s huge,” Kelly told her, indicating the grounds. “I think it’s going to be an interesting year.”</p><p>Polly sighed. “I’d agree, but I can’t find any technology,” she moaned. “No computers, no phone. Anywhere. That I’ve looked, anyway.”</p><p>Kelly raised an eyebrow. “You like your technology?”</p><p>Polly nodded. “Yep. One of the reasons I wanted to come here was to focus on my favourite things and stop doing all the other stuff the rulemakers want.”</p><p>Her reply didn’t make a lot of sense as a sentence, but Kelly, thinking back on her own lessons, understood. “But you can only do that if your favourite things are here,” she surmised, and Polly nodded.</p><p>“We’ll get them, somehow,” Kelly assured her. “Change happens with time, and faster with prompting.”</p><p>The crease between Polly’s eyebrows didn’t leave, but she nodded. Kelly considered her for a moment, and sighed. “There’s someone you want to talk to, right away, isn’t there?”</p><p>Polly shrugged. “Kind of,” she admitted, unwilling to say any more. </p><p>Kelly nodded and dropped her voice. “Come on, Beverley’s got a phone and if we aren’t allowed to use it, I bet she won’t know that yet.”</p><p>They rounded the wooden pillar together. The receptionist had headphones on and her eyes squeezed shut, and Kelly held in her laughter and pointed to the phone. Polly looked uncertain, so Kelly - recognising a fear in Polly despite her determination to break educational norms - picked it up for her and waited patiently until the redhead recited the number. </p><p>“Sit, where she can’t see you,” Kelly suggested. “I’ll stay close in case any other teachers come by. It’ll be fine.” She pressed call and handed the phone over, pacing towards the entrance and leaning on the doorframe, staring out across the grounds. She was wondering how easy it would be to escape from here like she had from the orphanage, if it came to it.</p><p>Polly sank down with her back against the desk, waiting.</p><p>“Hey, Ollie. It’s Pol.” She squeezed the phone as his familiar voice answered politely.</p><p>“Oh thank god - sorry, my bad, thank goodness - I was so worried when you didn’t ring yesterday!”</p><p>Polly chuckled, blinking back tears. “Sorry, it was… a bit of a journey, it was pretty late. And it’s big here, it’s… a maze, really.”</p><p>“How’s it going?”</p><p>“Er… alright. It’s meant to be the first day of term, but no-one’s here yet except me and another first year, so… we’ll see. But this is the phone in reception so I might not get to call again…”</p><p>“Breaking the rules already?” he teased, but she could hear the sadness in his voice. “Not to worry, just call when you can, and if not I’ll see you whenever you turn up on the doorstep, hm?”</p><p>“When does your school start again?”</p><p>“Tomorrow. I’m going up to top juniors though Pol, I’m skipping a year!”</p><p>“That’s great, Ollie. Really great. They should have done that years ago.”</p><p>He laughed down the phone, delighted, and she smiled, tangling the cable around her fingers and squeezing. “Wouldn’t have happened with that idiot always hittin’ me, would it? Got you to thank for it.”</p><p>Polly sighed. “Yeah, well, you’ll ace it all now, won’t you? University here you come.”</p><p>He chuckled again. “Something like that. Guess I’ll see you there, brainbox.”</p><p>Kelly was trying not to listen, but listening and watching was something she’d gotten good at, over the years. She didn’t know who Polly was talking to, but the way she was gripping the phone and twisting the cable, it’s like this ‘Ollie’ was some kind of lifeline. What kind, if he was still at school, she didn’t know. Perhaps a big brother? Or a friend from back home? Curious, though, that she’d called him and not a parent.</p><p>Seeing the pain in her eyes as she’d admitted she might not be able to call again, the despondency in her voice, Kelly decided she’d find a way to get her a phone. She didn’t know how, but she’d find a way.</p><p>It was the closest she’d ever come to feeling wistful for a relationship like that. A connection like that to another human being.</p><p>“Hey, say thanks to your mum, will you? For the taxi and letting me stay.”</p><p>Kelly considered the words, turning them over. Not a sibling then. </p><p>“Did you manage to deliver that letter?”</p><p>“Course, Pol. Not to the guy in person, like. But to the school. Look, it’s time for mum’s meds -”</p><p>Kelly looked up as Polly began to talk faster, louder.</p><p>“Alright, Ollie, go. Thank you. I know, it’s a bad time. Go. Go, I know, I’ll be in touch when I can. Bye. Bye.” Polly talked over his protests and listened until the tone flatlined, and then pulled the phone away from her ear, clenching her teeth against the tears. If her father saw them, he’d send her to pray for forgiveness for her selfishness, probably with a slap. She wasn’t sure what the reaction here would be.</p><p>Kelly pushed herself upright from the doorframe and walked slowly over. She reached gently for the phone, untangling the cable and placing it carefully back in its place on Beverley’s desk. Then she sat comfortably next to Polly on the floor, shoulder to shoulder.</p><p>“You okay?” She asked carefully. She’d never engaged with someone upset before, and she wasn’t completely sure where to start.</p><p>Polly nodded mutely.</p><p>“Friend from back home?”</p><p>“Sort of, yeah.”</p><p>Kelly considered the answer, wondering what kind of relationship was as close as that and yet only sort of friendship. </p><p>“We’ll get a phone sorted. Maybe we should write a list. Priorities: find missing classmates. Source a phone. Bring this place into the digital age. Survive the school year.”</p><p>Polly laughed, a strangled sound, and pulled her glasses off to scrub at her face.</p><p>“You don’t need to wear those, do you?” Kelly voiced her suspicion about the glasses. </p><p>Polly shrugged. “No. They made a big difference to…him,” she indicated the phone, “and now I just like them.”</p><p>“They suit you,” Kelly acquiesced. Polly smiled at her.</p><p>“Come on, I think there’s a way to get on the roof.” Kelly stood up and held out her hands, and Polly shoved her gasses back on and took them, heaving herself upright and straightening her skirt.</p>
<hr/><p>The rest of the school arrived just before lunch. </p><p>Kelly had led Polly up to the floor below the dorms and poked around, and sure enough, a balcony outside the ‘spare’ room window included a set of stairs into a tower. This tower was the tallest, in fact. </p><p>“What an amazing view.”</p><p>Polly, who was used to the view from the cathedral’s bell tower, wasn’t nearly as impressed, but Kelly stared in every direction, tracing the grounds she’d walked before and straining to see the edge of the school’s land. It was impossible to tell how much of the forest belonged to St. Trinian’s, but she could see the town Margot’s house was in, with its little garage, and she could see tennis courts and astroturf behind the red wall that skirted so close to the school on one side.</p><p>The girls also examined the roof. There were chimneys and other towers all over the place, and areas of the roof that would actually be safe to walk on, although they may not have been designed for that. </p><p>“I think we should add ‘make a map’ to that list,” Polly suggested. “There must be loads of places to access the roof from, once you start looking.”</p><p>Kelly agreed, and just as she was about to suggest they find computers first, so they could digitise the map, a loud honking had them both hurrying to the other side of the tower, staring down the driveway.</p><p>A bus - an old-fashioned school bus, covered in graffiti - was careering down the drive towards the school, looking less in control than Kelly had been in Dan’s car the day before.</p><p>“Stay and watch from here, or…go down?”</p><p>Polly watched the bus narrowly miss one of the old gateposts, swerve to the right and spray gravel from the church-like courtyard in every direction. Before it had even halted, the doors were open and tiny kids were spilling out, screaming and singing at the top of their lungs.</p><p>“Er… stay,” she decided weakly.</p><p>Kelly privately agreed. “At least they look to be lower school,” she pointed out hopefully.</p><p>Another bus trundled more demurely up the drive, and made no allowance for the kids running around ahead of it, narrowly missing three. It let out a stream of older-looking students, and Polly gulped. </p><p>“Hey, it’s not far off lunch time. Why don’t we go eat while they all settle in?” She asked, hoping to put off the inevitable.</p><p>Kelly lifted a shoulder. “Sure.”</p>
<hr/><p>The dining room was empty when they arrived, but a production line had been set up, and it wasn’t hard to figure it out. They took bread, buttered it, and added whichever ingredients they liked along the metal serving area - cheese, ham, chicken, egg, tuna, mayonnaise, salad - and then chose chips or crisps to go with it, and fruit if it took their fancy.</p><p>So it was that the girls were tucking into their lunch, sat at a random table, when the first students began to arrive.</p><p>First, a group of girls with gold hoop earrings, non-central ponytails, and knots in their shirts, most of whom removed chewing gum before making their sandwiches. They all seemed to have the same accent, the same grating tone. They didn’t spare Kelly or Polly a second glance, all sitting together at a single table. Kelly was certain she saw more than one stick their gum underneath the table and she shuddered, hoping they always sat in the same place.</p><p>Next came five girls who all seemed older, tall, slim, and glamourous. None of them had bread or chips, Kelly noticed; just sandwich filling and fruit. Somehow their uniform seemed to involve less material than the other students’ did, and more feathers, and she could see suspenders holding up the tallest one’s stockings. “The Queen Bees are the ones who’ll be famous, in the end. Some of them already are. Friends in high places,” Margot’s voice came back to her.</p><p>It took only a minute after that before a particularly scary group appeared. All of them had dark hair - black, purple, red, or a combination - and dark makeup, dark uniforms and piercings, and Kelly saw some tattoos and studded shoes and jewellery as well. They were quiet entering compared to everyone else, and kept their heads down, although there seemed to be a tension between this group and the first ones to arrive; Polly leaned over and whispered to Kelly that a few dirty looks were being thrown, and she nodded back, having noticed too.</p><p>Then came a group who seemed unwilling to put down their sports equipment. Hockey sticks, lacrosse sticks and various balls vied for first in the queue, and a couple of sword fights broke out, as well as some (successful) attempts to trip people over by bowling the balls at their feet.</p><p>There was chaos when the lower school crowded in. It began as a rumble which they later identified as the spiral staircase being overloaded, and then the conservatory exploded into a chaotic kaleidoscope of noise, colour and wailing. It reminded Polly forcibly of her very first school, even down to the blazers and ties and the snotty noses. </p><p>Finally, a grubby group of first years came in. It was clear they were first years because some - who’d obviously moved up from lower school and were more than a little excited about it - knew where they were going and what they were doing, and took a very enthusiastic lead. Behind them, others trailed - overwhelmed at the size and loudness of their new school, probably, and not quite sure whether they counted as new or old.</p><p>None of the groups approached the two girls.</p>
<hr/><p>If mealtime politics had seemed bad, it was nothing to the dorm room politics. </p><p>Kelly and Polly had escaped the dining room first and hurried to the temporary sanctuary. Suitcases and bags littered the landing below the dorms and one side of the staircase, and Kelly assumed they were brought inside by someone other than their owners, or they’d have all been under beds before lunch.</p><p>Inside, the dorm was untouched, just as they’d left it, and by unspoken agreement, they sat on their beds, claiming their spaces.</p><p>“It seems…chaotic.” Polly said finally, and Kelly chuckled. </p><p>“Incredibly so,” she agreed.</p><p>Suddenly nervous, brain running too fast, Polly pulled out the notebook from Oliver’s mum. “Do you want to write that list?” She asked, holding it out. </p><p>Kelly looked from the notebook to her, and smiled. “I love lists,” she admitted, “and I don’t have anything to write one on. But are you sure you don’t mind?”</p><p>Polly just shook her head, smiling back. “Can I…?” she pointed to the space beside Kelly, and when she received a nod, moved to sit next to her, handing over the notepad and pen.</p><p>“I’ll keep it neat,” Kelly promised, realising the book was brand new but for the phone number scribbled inside. The one she called earlier, she realised.</p><p>“My writing’s awful, so anything’s better than that,” Polly reassured her.</p><p>Kelly thought for a moment, and settled on an elegant, sweeping font she’d seen on a restaurant menu back near the Musicbox. She began to write, and Polly gasped as the beautiful handwriting took shape.</p><p><em>St. Trinian’s: Term One</em>, she titled the page. Underneath, she began her list. <em>Priority One</em>: </p><p>She looked up at Polly expectantly. </p><p>“Er… find out the timetable. What we’re doing, when, and where.”</p><p>Kelly copied it down.</p><p>“Priority two… er, figure out what that down there was.”</p><p>Kelly considered for a moment, then wrote,<em> identify the tribes</em>. “Miss Fritton called them tribes,” she told Polly, and then tapped the pen against her lips.</p><p>
  <em>Priority three: find a phone.</em>
</p><p>Polly smiled. “Thanks,” she whispered.</p><p>Kelly didn’t respond, already moving on. <em>Priority four: start a map. Priority five: digitise the school. Priority six: Digitise the map.</em></p><p>She looked up, then. “I think the rest are more individual,” she said. Polly nodded. </p><p>“I can’t think of anything more pressing,” she agreed. “Timescale?”</p><p>Kelly considered. “Well, that depends on the holidays,” she replied. “If there’s a holiday before Christmas, you need a way to book your journey home, right?”</p><p>Polly frowned. “I guess we should find out if there’s a holiday in October,” she said slowly. “Maybe… between two and three?”</p><p>Kelly added it in tiny, flowing lettering between the other two lines. Then she wrote after it in block capitals, <em>SET TIMESCALES.</em></p><p>Polly nodded her approval. “I’ll keep it here, in this drawer, if you ever want to add anything or sketch some map stuff or whatever.” She tucked it safely away in the table.</p><p>Just in time. A rumble began below them, and some crashing echoed up the stairs.</p><p>The door was flung back, bouncing off a beam, and people poured in.</p><p>Windows rattled in their frames and Polly, jumping hurriedly back onto her own bed, pulled her knees to her chest, feeling safer there in case the floor caved in. </p><p>It took almost two hours of pushing and shoving, fighting, slapping, kicking, swordfighting with sports equipment, shouting and arguments for everyone to have a bed. Kelly and Polly didn’t move, and the beds around them soon filled up with other first years; most of them weren’t involved in the arguments, simply taking the beds that weren’t being argued over. Only the cockier ones seemed determined to get involved, and Kelly could see that some of them already had trademarks of some of the other groups showing through, like earrings, or gum, or sports equipment masquerading as an extra limb, or makeup.</p><p>She wondered if she’d ever fit into any of these social groups, and glancing over at Polly, she got the feeling she wasn’t the only one thinking it.</p>
<hr/><p>Finally, all the luggage had been brought in and tucked away.</p><p>All the way to Kelly’s right, in the very corners, were the quiet, dark, scary group. They’d insisted, because there were fewer windows down there, and they didn’t like the light. Kelly personally thought the area closest to the door was darker, but that seemed to be an unpopular spot.</p><p>Between that group and the first years were the sporty group, and Kelly was relieved that they’d taken beds on the left and right of the dorm, so any flying balls weren’t going over her bed. There were a couple of first years on her right - the timid sort, it seemed - and a couple opposite, and then three around Polly who were loud and brash, and more around the corner; they’d be able to see the door from their beds. Beyond them, there was the group with chewing gum permanently on the go, and closest to the door were the Queen Bees. As Kelly watched, one darted outside, mobile phone in hand, and she figured their chosen beds were designed for the quick getaway.</p><p>The flurry of unpacking was interesting to watch. Somehow, a lot of the louder first years seemed to have gotten hold of hammocks, and were busy stringing them up from beams between all their beds. One girl, dark skinned and pretty - and popping chewing gum like a pro, Kelly noted - marched between her and Polly’s beds without so much as looking at them and tied one firmly into place.</p><p>The dark end of the dorm was getting darker, with many of the students there unpacking their own black bedding and stringing up black net curtains. Polly saw one set of bedding adorned with a skull, inverted metal cross and roses, and shivered. <em>Lord, I hope they know what they’re doing if they’re messing around with that rubbish</em>, she thought, and she wasn’t sure whether she meant it as a prayer or not.</p><p>There were hoops and buckets finding their way into the air around the next set of beds, with numbers painted on; some sort of scoring system. A chalkboard was hung from a window handle.</p><p>There were feathers near the door, and white fur, and vanity units with mirrors and desks just like Polly’s mother’s back home. </p><p>And between that and the hammocks, there was an explosion of animal print and pink.</p><p>It was such a sudden and intense change from the view of the room just an hour ago, Kelly kept blinking, and Polly couldn’t keep her mouth closed. And it was this efficiency, this capability, that Kelly couldn’t get out of her head for weeks and months to come. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Finding Their Feet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The rest of their first day had been…Kelly considered that. Not mundane or uneventful, exactly. She wasn’t sure anything ever was at this school. But they’d simply observed, been swept down to dinner, readied for bed, and slept.</p><p>She’d slept better that night than the one previous, perhaps because she was tired, perhaps because the quiet cacophony of everyone’s breathing was familiar compared to the quiet of the night before.</p><p>Polly, judging from the dark smudges under her eyes, had not.</p><p>To their surprise, lessons didn’t start the next day. In fact, most of the students slept in until late morning, and then milled around the school. The sporty group could be seen on the hockey pitch, warming up and playing made-up games with Cleaver, once again dressed like an army general, shouting encouragement. The goths - Kelly assumed they were goths - spent most of their time avoiding everyone, melting into nothingness the moment they saw another student. The queen bees were always on their phones, and Kelly was wondering idly if they ever upgraded; perhaps Polly could have an old one. And the group with chewing gum seemed to spend most of their time huddled in groups outside, although what they could possibly be talking about, neither of them had any idea.</p><p>The first years ran riot, giving confusing and illogical tours to new students and chattering at the top of their lungs about how the school worked (or not), playing hopscotch and cartwheeling at inopportune moments.</p><p>Somehow, the teachers all seemed dazed. Even pissed, Kelly thought, comparing them to all the people she’d seen in bars and pubs during her illegal sneaking out - not that she was an expert. Polly, though, had the same idea.</p><p>“Is it just me,” she said carefully as they skirted an unsteady adult, “or are all the teachers drunk?”</p><p>Kelly appraised her and nodded ruefully. “I think so,” she admitted.</p><p>That night, there was a stampede out of the dorms at about the time everyone had started getting into pyjamas the night before. </p><p>Kelly and Polly looked at each other, and hurriedly followed.</p><p>The surprisingly orderly gaggle of students made their way down past Beverley’s desk to the underground part of the school, and filed through the long, thin, useless room to a door Polly and Kelly completely missed before, because it was painted the same grey as the walls. And then they’d emerged into a huge, squareish…bar.</p><p>“Is this…” Polly turned around and around, open-mouthed.</p><p>There were mirrors on all the walls, and a raised platform at the back of the room surrounded by speakers, and a fully-stocked bar along the length of the left-hand side. Plastic and glass shapes and disco balls hung from the ceiling, and looking up, Kelly could see lights - proper stage lighting - on runners. They were below the red brick area, she thought. </p><p>“Yeah. A bar. Or a club. A full on party room,” she finished a speechless Polly’s sentence.</p><p>And then all the lights went off, and incredibly loud music began to play, and the room descended into chaos and noise.</p>
<hr/><p>The morning after the party had been fascinating for both girls. Polly, who had only ever touched mouthfuls of Communion wine before, refused to drink anything, while Kelly tried a little of almost everything and watched as her new classmates and teachers got completely and utterly hammered. </p><p>They’d fallen into bed at three in the morning, and remained awake as older students stumbled in over the course of the early hours. </p><p>Kelly had woken to the sun, a dry mouth and a slight headache, and cheerfully gone to shower, returning fully made-up to straighten her hair; Polly had showered afterwards, exhausted from three nights of little sleep.</p><p>The next to wake was a blonde first year. Kelly had watched her for much of the party as she downed shot after shot of straight vodka, which Kelly hadn’t much enjoyed; she found burned if not watered down.</p><p>“Hey,” she said to the girl. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>“I am fine,” the girl replied in accented English. “Twas a good party. Do you know vhere to find the showers?”</p><p>Kelly had assured Polly she’d be right back and shown the girl the way, finding out that she was from the Ukraine and her father was a diplomat. She’d been drinking vodka since before she could walk, and not because that’s what her part of the world did - because that’s what her nanny gave her. </p><p>“Hence no hangover,” Kelly surmised. </p><p>“Yes. I do not get hangovers from vodka.”</p><p>Reaching the bathroom door, Kelly held out her hand. “Kelly Jones,” she introduced herself.</p><p>“Anoushka Srbova. You can handle your liquor, Kelly Jones.”</p><p>Kelly laughed. “I haven’t had any before last night,” she admitted. She held the door open. “Here, showers. And when we’ve settled into classes, Anoushka, I’d love to learn your language.”</p><p>Anoushka raised both eyebrows at her. “Russian, or Ukranian?”</p><p>Kelly shrugged, smiling, and turned away.</p><p>The rest of the student body remained asleep for most of the morning - some even until the afternoon. Kelly and Polly both ventured downstairs long before they stirred, and found that the party had spilled out of the basement at some point, for Beverley’s grand entry area was covered in glitter, glowing paint and (clean) toilet paper.</p><p>They went in search of breakfast, and Kelly’s headache dissipated with fried food. Neither of them were sure who had cooked it, since the whole school seemed deserted, but they ate it thankfully regardless.</p><p>Then day passed slowly. Lunch was just breakfast again, with a few more people present, though all seemed worse for wear; in the afternoon, there was a clean-up operation in the entryway and some murmured conversations, and a lot of glaring at anyone who spoke too loudly, dropped anything, or generally made too much noise.</p>
<hr/><p>It wasn’t until the next day that there seemed to be progress.</p><p>One of the five glamorous Queen Bees entered the dorm just after lunch wearing a wide smile, and a badge. Kelly couldn’t see what it was, but she showed it to the other four and their squeals of ‘oh em gee’ silenced the whole room. </p><p>“Afternoon, everyone,” the girl addressed the now-quiet students. “I’m Rhian, and I’m head girl this year.”</p><p>There was a silence, and Polly looked around. </p><p>“Isn’t that something to celebrate?” She hissed to Kelly. “Should we clap?”</p><p>Kelly shrugged back, and Rhian began to speak again.</p><p>“Classes begin first-thing. The usual carousel applies from tomorrow, and that includes sports tryouts.”</p><p>She sat down, and Polly and Kelly looked at each other.</p><p>Anoushka came over and sat beside them.</p><p>“What is a carousel?” She asked seriously, and Kelly and Polly looked at one another and shrugged.</p><p>“In this context, I haven’t the foggiest,” Polly replied.</p><p>It became clear in the morning, though. Kelly was still the first up, showered, dressed and ready. Polly wasn’t far behind her. Everyone else laid in till well after nine, and Polly was mystified.</p><p>“When do lessons start, then?”</p><p>“When everyone’s ready,” a voice behind her said. </p><p>Polly turned, and Kelly shifted, to see a first year pulling on her shoes. Her platinum blonde hair was cropped short one one side and fell across her face, and her voice was gravelly and low. She hadn’t spoken to them before, but Kelly was sure she’d been a lower school pupil here too; she seemed to know what was going on.</p><p>“I’m Roxy,” the girl added, wiggling her foot in her shoe and standing to hold out her hand to Polly. She shook it tentatively, and Roxy smirked at her. “Nervous?” She asked, and turned to Kelly without waiting for a response, shaking her hand firmly.</p><p>“What do you mean, when we’re ready?” Kelly asked, watching her.</p><p>“St. Trinian’s isn’t like your old schools. It’s chaos. You go to whatever class you want, whenever you want, and if you don’t want to go… don’t. And the teachers do the same.” Roxy shrugged and turned around, reaching under her bed for a strangely-shaped case that Kelly recognised from the Musicbox.</p><p>“See you,” she threw over her shoulder, and left, weaving between the various items of clothing, odd shoes, suitcase corners and hockey sticks blocking her path to the door.</p><p>Kelly and Polly stared at one another, then scrambled off their beds and raced to the door. </p><p>At the bottom of the dorm stairs, they stopped.</p><p>“Science?” Polly asked. </p><p>Kelly chewed her lip. “I think I just want to explore… see what the classes are like,” she said, realising that her practical way of learning was probably too independent for formal lessons.</p><p>“Sure. Hey, will you let me know what you find? I really want to use the bunsen burners.”</p><p>Kelly had no idea what a bunsen burner was, and just nodded. “Catch you at lunch?”</p><p>Polly smiled. “Deal.”</p>
<hr/><p>In the first week, both girls were up early each day compared to their classmates, stayed busy all day, and slept soundly as a result. </p><p>Polly spent most of her time in the science labs, sometimes with a teacher and sometimes entirely alone, experimenting carefully with different equipment, chemicals, temperatures and materials and recording all of her findings in an ancient, but empty, exercise book. She’d found the book in one of the cupboards while searching for some goggles after an unfortunate incident involving an exploding test tube.</p><p>It took her less than a week to memorise the periodic table, and she was enjoying working out the relevance of each element’s position on it.</p><p>She’d also discovered, during a failed attempt to shortcut through an empty art classroom, that the young guy they’d met at the breakfast table was a passionate artist and art historian, but originally trained as a mathematician, and although his creative streak annoyed Polly sometimes, she found herself learning maths from him when the science labs became too stuffy, too smelly, or she just needed a change of scene. He’d talk about some various types or applications of maths until Polly seized upon one that sounded interesting, and then he’d talk her through it. So far, probability and betting odds, inflation rates and taxation were her new avenues of knowledge.</p><p>To her relief, she’d managed to get an answer about technology, too. The science teacher informed her that the old computers had been skipped at the end of last year, and the new computers would be arriving the following month, but they’d been delayed due to a payment problem. Polly accepted the explanation without comment, and crossed her fingers that the time until they arrived would pass quickly.</p><p>For her part, Kelly had continued to explore the school. She’d found no less than eight ways onto the roof, and the room housing the spiral staircase to the dining room also had two well-camouflaged doors in it that they’d missed. One led to a smallish, dark sports room, with gymnastics equipment, climbing apparatus, mats and other pads in it; one seemed to be a similarly-sized changing room. A closer inspection revealed that the changing room had its own showers, and a bizarre staircase up to an odd sort of trapdoor, from which sports teams could emerge out of the patio near the hockey pitch. She’d used the gym on more than one occasion, and stumbled upon Roxy playing her guitar in the bar, confirming her suspicions about the funny-shaped case.</p><p>She’d used her hockey stick on the hockey pitch, practicing shooting past imaginary goalkeepers, and Cleaver had drafted her onto the hockey team immediately - not that Kelly had any idea what standard the team was, if they played matches, or when they practiced. She’d heaved the rusted gates in the red brick wall open and played tennis the wrong way on the court, using the wall as an opponent, until Cleaver had found her and played her properly, shouting out surprisingly helpful tips and teaching her the scoring system. </p><p>She’d sought out the languages teacher and arranged to continue her French tuition and pick up Spanish, and found out that the book she’d spied at that first breakfast was written in Catalan, from the north region of Spain. Miss Maupassant had offered to teach her that too, but Kelly was determined to learn from Anoushka and practice her Arabic, so she’d politely declined.</p><p>When the weekend rolled around, Kelly had her first lie in. She was still the first to rise, but she did so after nine.</p><p>Polly, whose eye bags were more pronounced than ever, had fallen asleep in her glasses, and Kelly removed them gently, then reached for the notebook quietly.</p><p>Turning to the page after the list they’d made, she chose an economic, fast and readable style and noted down the different groups and their habits and activities. Her explorations had led to a number of discoveries, including the fact that Miss Maupassant taught religious studies to anyone interested - and the dark, menacing group in the corner seemed to be, somehow - and the older, cardigan-wearing teacher was an English teacher with a particular interest in racier novels, which the Queen Bees lived for.</p><p>On the next page, she remembered Tamara’s wobbly, childish handwriting, and mimicked it to describe the first week for the lower school. Inappropriate nursery rhymes, weaponising play-doh, and using the rifles stored in the garden sheds - which turned out to be paintball guns - were top of the list; Kelly had also watched in amusement as Cleaver taught them basic camouflage and concealment exercises, and had them playing capture the flag against one another by the third day of term.</p><p>Finally, she began sketching a map. It was horribly out of proportion, but she supposed the computers would help with that. She tried to put a floor on each page, but kept running out of space for rooms she’d forgotten, and struggling to decide where to put rooms that sat awkwardly between floors.</p><p>Eventually, she gave up, just as Polly began to stir. </p><p>“Morning, sleepyhead,” she whispered. Polly blinked at her. </p><p>“Hey. Why do you always look perfect first thing in a morning?”</p><p>Kelly wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she just slid the notebook onto Polly’s table instead. “Made some notes,” she murmured. “Next job is to source your phone and figure out what’s going on with October. Since it’s the weekend, I reckon that’s a good mission to fill it with.”</p><p>Polly groaned and rubbed her eyes. “Sounds good,” she mumbled, sitting up. Her wild curls tumbled over one another and she swept them away impatiently. </p><p>It took fifteen minutes for Polly - who forwent her shower in favour of having dry hair - to be ready for breakfast.</p><p>Halfway down the dorm room stairs, Polly stopped. </p><p>“We’re in uniform,” she said.</p><p>“And?” Kelly turned to look at her.</p><p>“It’s the weekend. Surely we don’t wear uniform on weekends.”</p><p>Kelly shrugged. “Why not? We’re still at school.”</p><p>Polly had never been at school on a weekend. Kelly had never had a school uniform. Neither knew the answer, and so they stood, undecided, on the stairs.</p><p>“I don’t have much else,” Polly admitted finally, and Kelly shook her head.</p><p>“I don’t much like what I have,” she agreed, considering the plain clothes she’d worn in the orphanage. With her makeup and kitten heels, they’d look very out of place.</p><p>By mutual consent, they walked on, ducking into breakfast. Miss Maupassant was there, not eating, and the art guy, whose name had passed them both by completely, tucking into what looked like his second plateful.</p><p>Kelly approached cautiously and asked, “When are the holidays?”</p><p>Miss Maupassant looked blankly at her. </p><p>“Er…est-il un vacances en octobre?” Kelly tried.</p><p>“Des vacances,” she corrected, and then hesitated. “Theo, do we break before noel?”</p><p>He shook his head, swallowed, and said, “Nah, there’s a lesson break, and a party, but no home visits til Christmas.”</p><p>“Thanks. Merci beaucoup.” Kelly joined Polly at their table, digging a fork into her egg and watching the yolk spill out. “There’s no holiday until Christmas,” she told her quietly. </p><p>Polly regarded her for a moment. “You seem…disappointed.”</p><p>Kelly looked up. “No, I…thought you’d want to go home sooner, but I’m happy to stay here.” She looked away. “Well, I mean… I don’t know where I’ll go for the holidays.”</p><p>Polly understood. “So Christmas or October are both too soon.” She reached out and patted Kelly’s forearm. “I get it.”</p><p>Kelly - surprised by the physical contact - drew back and stood up. “I’m not hungry,” she announced. “I’ll catch you later, Polly.”</p><p>Confused and a little hurt, Polly watched as Kelly emptied her plate into the bins, slid it into the soapy water, and retreated.</p><p>That was the first day of many that Kelly found herself in the gym area, punching and kicking one of the bags for all she was worth, releasing all the emotion that her nameless self had failed to process.</p>
<hr/><p>Neither of the girls mentioned their slight spat, and Polly didn’t comment on Kelly’s bruised knuckles, deciding it was best not to push away an ally at such an early stage. </p><p>Kelly continued to spend time with Polly, but she shied away from any personal discussion.</p><p>They settled into an uneasy kind of routine.</p><p>Kelly was always the first up, even when the days got shorter and the sun failed to peep in through her skylight before she woke. She found herself going down to the gym every morning, kicking and punching until she trembled, and then showering and preparing for the day. Sometimes, she’d see Theo there, and after the first time, when he’d jumped a mile and sworn loudly at her presence, they worked together, barely speaking but mirroring one another’s moves, Kelly shadowing his workouts. Soon she was not only punching more strongly and kicking more accurately, she was using battle ropes, pulling herself up the climbing apparatus, landing and rolling on the mats, pulling herself up to rest her chin on a bar, and squatting with ever-heavier weights. She was stronger and more flexible than she’d ever been, and she was still made up in Kelly Jones style before breakfast.</p><p>On lesson days, she worked on her languages and sports, and helped with the various war games Cleaver designed for the lower school. She found the tactics and the techniques quite fascinating; so far, her favourites were evade and escape, and camouflage and concealment. </p><p>Believing in balance, Kelly sometimes went to other lessons. She’d found art classes interesting; although she wasn’t any good herself, watching others create so many different images and interpretations from a single source of inspiration satisfied the observer in her no end, and the psychology of it intrigued her. She also found Miss Maupassant’s religious lessons interesting, and identified that surprising development as an element of the same curiosity that caused her to sneak out of the orphanage in the first place; an interest in culture, and the world beyond her own. </p><p>She sometimes went to science or maths lessons, or English lessons for that matter, simply to broaden her understanding and vary her days. Her explorations also included the library, where she would take some gadget or whatsit to take apart and examine, and when that got dull or she needed a break, she read, focusing particularly on law and the loopholes she’d first identified when trying to work out how exactly to solidify herself. </p><p>The drama department was fascinating, for - alongside art - it was Miss Fritton’s domain. Although not interested in performing for an audience or creating costumes, she was intrigued by the idea of acting - for wasn’t that what she did now? She’d been lost for so many years, and now she was creating herself character. Like with art, the psychology of production was something she reflected on regularly. Drama lessons were mostly for the lower school, and tended to involve the shyest creating costumes after studying the context of the play, while the more outgoing ones played parts and Miss Fritton took the lead role. Kelly personally thought her acting was incredibly over the top, but she supposed, in a theatre, where the stage was so small and the crowd so big, perhaps it worked.</p><p>And when lessons got too much, Kelly would retire to the bar, where Anoushka would invariably be mixing and trialling cocktails with the matron, and Roxy would be producing music, sometimes alone and sometimes with a crowd, but most often with the teacher who seemed to be a retired biker. Despite only being a first year, Roxy took the lead, and Kelly had to admit their music was pretty good, even if her fingers itched for a piano while she sat and drank and watched.</p><p>Polly’s routine involved more sleeping than Kelly’s, and less balance. She’d usually wake in time to accompany Kelly to breakfast, and had no idea her companion had been up longer than the time it took to shower, or that she didn’t shower on the top floor, but in the sports room. </p><p>She’d often stumble up to the library for an hour or two in the morning, to read and perhaps find a topic that took her fancy; she found that introducing new topics in the morning refocused her mind, re-whetted her thirst for knowledge. Intellectual meditation done, she’d check whether Theo was free, and if so, she’d start with maths; her probability, betting and taxes had moved on into coding and decoding, measurements including area, volume and perimeter, and complex mental calculations, not to mention the theory of fractions and bases.</p><p>After maths, or if Theo wasn’t free, she’d head up to science, where the teacher was as happy to experiment as Polly was. Sometimes they discussed some theory; sometimes, they worked together on a practical experiment; and sometimes, they worked companionably but independently. Polly recorded everything carefully in her exercise book.</p><p>Then, she’d spend some time refreshing her memory on her Arabic. She’d written Javid a number of letters, averaging perhaps two a week, but she had yet to find a way to post them, and she hoped he hadn’t forgotten her. Each letter was carefully dated, so when she found a way, he’d know what order to read them in.</p><p>And sometimes, she too found her way into the religious studies classes, if only for old times’ sake.</p><p>At weekends, the girls spent time together, adding notes to Polly’s notebook. Polly was fascinated by Kelly’s morphing handwriting, and often tried to mimic it, to little effect; hers was scratchy and angular, and seemed determined not to change. Sometimes, they redrafted parts of the map, and it was beginning to take shape, for no matter how much she tried to deny it, Polly had a creative streak, with an eye for caricature.</p><p>When there was nothing else to write, they sat in comfortable silence on the roof, or as the weather worsened, in the common room off the main entrance, from which the smell seemed to have faded. Sometimes they even ended up in the library, or one of the empty or storage classrooms. They rarely spoke on these occasions, but sometimes, a little bit of history would come out.</p><p>Towards the end of September was the first time it happened. “It’s Harvest Festival,” Polly said suddenly, and Kelly looked up to where she was perched on the church pew in the common room, hands clasped in her lap.</p><p>“It’s what?”</p><p>Polly looked up at her. “Harvest Festival. A church celebration after all the crops have finished for the year. We collect food and donate it.”</p><p>Kelly considered her for a moment. “You grew up in the church?” she asked finally.</p><p>“I…guess so. My dad’s a vicar. Or he was… who knows, now.” Polly stared unseeingly at the wall, and then spoke softly. “’The land has yielded its harvest: God our God has blessed us. The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it; Let the heavens be glad and let the earth rejoice.’” </p><p>She blinked, and glanced uncertainly at Kelly. Kelly smiled softly back.</p><p>The second time, they were in the library. It was October, and Kelly was taking apart one of the toasters that they used for breakfast. It wasn’t a traditional pop-up one, but a kind of conveyor belt, like in catering kitchens, so that lots of rounds of bread could be dropped in and toasted slowly on the way round. This one had a faulty temperature gage, though, so all the bread came out charred, and she was trying to fix it. </p><p>She was also trying to decide what it reminded her of. Something was nagging in the back of her mind.</p><p>“Olivia!” she exclaimed, dropping the pliers she was using to hold a wire in place.</p><p>Polly looked up. “Is that some new sort of swear word?” She asked, laughing.</p><p>Kelly stared unseeingly at her. “What?”</p><p>Polly frowned. “Olivia. Who’s Olivia?”</p><p>Kelly blinked, an image of a conveyor belt on a polished wooden floor blurring behind her eyes, coughing up coloured balls. The hollow echo of toppling pins.</p><p>“It’s her birthday,” she whispered. “We went bowling.”</p><p>“Bowling? I love bowling.”</p><p>Kelly shook her head, trying to rid herself of the picture. “That’s the only time we ever went,” she said flatly, and turned away.</p><p>Polly wondered who ‘we’ referred to anyway.</p>
<hr/><p>On the last day of lessons before the October break, there was another mammoth party. This time, the music was live - after a rant from Miss Fritton in which she reminded the performers that the St. Trinian’s Band had been banned last year because of poor musical taste and inappropriate conduct. Roxy, who was stood on the stage surrounded by four or five other musicians, responded by opening a banner above their heads that named them ‘The St. Trinian’s Banned’. </p><p>The headmistress had been so impressed with their ingenuity, she’d let them perform.</p><p>Roxy had gathered a good group, and Kelly - emboldened by Anoushka’s strong drinks and a confidence in this character she was carving herself - found herself dancing and jumping around with everyone else.</p><p>Polly remained a wallflower, and watched worriedly as Kelly became more and more unlike herself. Her control, her perfect facade, was slipping, and although it relieved Polly to know she was as human as the rest of them, she wasn’t sure Kelly would see it the same way.<br/>
Eventually, it was JJ - a Queen Bee, and the head girl’s right hand - who steered her carefully out of the crowd. </p><p>“You’re doing great, kid, but you don’t seem the type to make a fool of yourself and not beat yourself up after,” Polly heard the Queen Bee say as she hurried after them towards the entrance hall. “Look, just go and stand outside for me a sec, and if you feel alright in five, get back inside, hm? And if not, you can thank me in the morning.”</p><p>She sounded remarkably smart, when not with her airheaded friends, Polly reflected as the barely-dressed JJ swept past her in a flurry of feathers, heading back downstairs to the party.</p><p>Polly glanced around and headed for the front doors, where cold air hit her. She shivered, pulling her blazer tighter around herself, and looked left and right for Kelly.</p><p>A retching sound to her left and the unpleasant liquid spatter of vomit had her running. She found Kelly around the corner, leaning heavily on a leaded window pane.</p><p>“Smart one, that JJ,” she gasped, wiping her mouth on her hand while Polly hovered awkwardly. “Sorry about that.” Kelly straightened up, grimacing. “Anoushka’s gonna pay for that.”</p><p>Polly dithered, not sure what to say or do, and Kelly took a deep, steadying breath. </p><p>“Sorry, Pol. I’m gonna go wash up and head to bed.”</p><p>“I’ll come,” Polly replied, “the party isn’t really my scene anyway.”</p><p>Kelly smiled ruefully. “Me neither, tonight. Note to self: parties are more fun tipsy than drunk.” She covered her mouth, standing stock still for a second, and then groaned. “I need water.”</p>
<hr/><p>Kelly woke late the next morning and found Polly already up, looking worriedly at her. The redhead breathed a sigh of relief when dark eyes met hers. “Thank god, I was getting panicky,” she told her quietly.</p><p>Kelly glanced around the dorm, but only half the beds were full. Her head was pounding and her eyes ached, and her mouth felt furry. She groaned and hid her head under her duvet.</p><p>“Anoushka said she was sorry, but it’s good to know your limits, and yours are higher than matron’s and all the chavs put together. And JJ said ‘you’re welcome’, take these, drink this, get some fresh air, and eat dry toast as soon as you can.”</p><p>Kelly stuck her head out to squint at the glass of water and pack of pills on her bedside table, which Polly was pushing towards her.</p><p>“Two?” She asked, rolling carefully onto her sensitive stomach and rising into a half-seated position.</p><p>“She said up to four, but I’d say up to three personally,” Polly replied anxiously. </p><p>Kelly popped two and swallowed them with the water, trying not to gag.</p><p>“Okay, I’m getting up,” she announced, and headed - slowly - for the shower.</p><p>After an hour on the roof and two slices of dry toast, she felt much more human, and was apologising profusely to Polly as they left through the conservatory’s external door into the grounds. Polly was insisting it was fine.</p><p>It was that day that Kelly realised what St. Trinian’s did. </p><p>It gave them all independence. It gave them a choice: learn a lot, like Kelly; learn a lot about a little, like Polly; develop a talent, like Anoushka, Roxy, and Camilla; or doss, like many of the students did. It made them take responsibility, gave them opportunities that they wouldn’t get elsewhere, taught them lessons - like their drinking limits - at a younger age. </p><p>Their school wasn’t about education, it was about life experience.</p><p>And in that moment, Kelly had flashes of inspiration that rendered her speechless, mouth hanging open.</p><p>“Kel? You going to puke again?” Polly asked in trepidation as the colour drained out of Kelly’s face.</p><p>“No…no, sorry, I’m just…thinking.” She frowned deeply, and then stamped her foot, making Polly jump. “Damn, this place has so much potential!”</p><p>Polly stared at her and shook her head, at a loss.</p>
<hr/><p>Midway through the week off, there was another party planned. Kelly knew this because Roxy had told her. She therefore hung about in the entrance hall before kicking-off time, and caught Miss Fritton, in a wonderful mood after some warm-up drinks in her office and looking forward to blowing off the cobwebs.</p><p>“Now, girlie, I hope you’re coming to this party!”</p><p>“Of course, miss, I just wanted to ask you something first.”</p><p>Camilla raised her eyebrows. “And what might that be?”</p><p>“I understand my uniform and tuition are being covered by the school, and I was hoping I could remain here over the Christmas holidays doing some odd bits of work to go some small way to paying you back.”</p><p>Camilla chuckled. “You can stay as long as you want, girlie, I’ll be here!” She hummed a tune the Banned played at the last party. “Come along, now, we have some dancing to do.”</p><p>Kelly smiled indulgently at her. “Comfort break, miss, I’ll be right there.”</p><p>“Kelly Jones, you are a St. Trinian’s pupil. Call a spade a spade. If you need to piss, say so.” She rested slightly-crossed eyes on Kelly’s face, a heavy hand on her shoulder, and Kelly smiled, partly at the sentiment and partly with pleasure in hearing her name - her name - said aloud.</p><p>“I need to piss, miss.”</p><p>“Lovely. I do like a rhyme. Off you trot.” Camilla turned, humming, and weaved down the stairs.</p><p>Kelly sprinted up to the dormitory and crossed item one off her list.</p>
<hr/><p>The rest of the October break included two more parties, plus one the night before lessons began again, which had a ‘back to school’ theme. Kelly and Polly went to all of them, and Kelly experimented with beers, ciders, wines and alcopops, avoiding the shorts entirely and asking Anoushka’s expert opinion on her conduct.</p><p>It turned out her alcohol tolerance generally was high. She could drink alcopops, beer and cider with little effect, although their bubbles filled her up like a full meal did. Wine was probably the worst one for her, even worse than the shorts, but she still held it well, and Anoushka pointed out that her tolerance would improve with use - plus she’d mixed her wine colours, and all the different shorts, which didn’t help.</p><p>Polly watched in fascination as Kelly experimented, and found herself comparing this loud, brash madness to the cool, quiet cathedral and hushed respectfulness she’d grown up with. While she didn’t personally want to get involved with the alcohol just yet, she thought the liveliness here was by far her favourite atmosphere of the two. Despite the differences in the tribes, and the fights, there was such a sense of acceptance and loyalty. </p><p>When not partying or recovering, St. Trinian’s students were busier in the holidays than during term time, it seemed. It frustrated Kelly no end, because her flash of inspiration burned within her, and she could see so many ways the students and staff could be so much more. It was as if carving out a place for herself had given her ambition, a future she’d never pictured, and she wanted to shake that realisation into everyone.</p><p>She spent first half of the break getting to know each person by name. It wasn’t easy, for she still avoided discussing anything personal, and so did most of her peers; everyone kept their cards very close to their chests. Kelly used her observation skills, testing and trialling them, stretching herself, learning about individuals and tribes without interacting, before she tried starting any conversations.</p><p>She found that the chavs were close-knit, and most of them had family in prison. While none of them discussed how hard that was, or how they felt about that family member, Kelly overheard a top trumps sort of conversation in which Mackenzie - a sixth year - and Brittany compared which facilities they had visited to see family. Mackenzie seemed to win with Strangeways to Brittany’s Belmarsh, and after that, everyone in the tribe seemed to look to Mackenzie for direction despite the fact that Brittany was a year older. Somehow, their verbal shit-slinging seemed to bond them more, rather than less, and Kelly noted that those that argued the most seemed the closest. It was an odd dynamic.</p><p>Kelly observed the sporty group and noted that not all of them were particularly good at their sports. It was curious that she hadn’t noticed before, but she supposed the equipment they carried provided a distraction; they weren’t the focus because their kit was. It took her only a couple of hours of eavesdropping while pretending to read to realise that they had very little to talk about as a tribe. Unlike the close-knit chavs, or a sports team in the real world, the sporty tribe were not a cohesive unit. They were competitive and disorganised. They don’t have anywhere else to fit, Kelly realised, wondering if she’d end up there eventually.</p><p>The Queen Bees were JJ, Letitia, Scarlett and India, plus the head girl Rhian. Kelly’s observations were careful with this group, for she overheard some things she wished she hadn’t and yet which piqued her interest, resulting in her attending a few more English classes after the break. All of them were glamorous, that was for sure, and Kelly could imagine Margot with them - but Margot and JJ seemed to have an intelligence that the others lacked. If you didn’t look too hard, they all seemed like airheads, but Kelly saw a keenness in JJ’s eyes. <br/>
They all spent an inordinate amount of time on their appearance, despite the fact that all of them were slim and beautiful already, and most of their conversations were about celebrities, TV shows and make-up, which they’d apply while sat at their vanity units in just their (very tiny and lacy) underwear. Yet behind that, Kelly noted a provocative edge. Talking about sexual exploits to each other was one thing, she thought, but a breathy giggle down a mobile phone and a definite double-entendre to the title ‘head girl’ was quite another, and quite a bit more useful too, it seemed.</p><p>Lastly, the goths. Kelly discovered that they preferred the term ‘emos’, although according to her research - not that the library was wonderfully well stocked on the topic - they weren’t really either. Since there was colour in the blackness - a streak of blonde or purple hair, red and black checked jeans, a band shirt - they leaned towards emo in fashion, but their odd rituals and appreciation for death was rather more gothic. They didn’t seem to have an affinity one way or the other for the music that started either movement off. Kelly learned that it was ‘emotionally unstable’, rather than ‘emotive hardcore’, that their tribe name referred to, and this was the closest she ever heard any of them come to admitting they had issues. She didn’t overhear much from their corner of the dorm, but she noted a few twisted books and films with horrific plots being discussed.<em> I wonder how many of them are interested in those because they ring true; I wonder whether these discussions are a catharsis, and the death fascination a response to violence.</em> Kelly shuddered as her own thoughts darkened, and moved quickly on.</p><p>Then, there were the first years. They were loud, obnoxious and immature, and so completely unlike her that she wondered if perhaps Mrs Colley’s joke about the possibility of her coming to high school late was more accurate than they thought. <br/>
Of the nine of them, two were her and Polly. Roxy, it turned out, was indeed a first year; she’d attended St. Trinian’s the previous year too, after being expelled from four other primary schools. Kelly surmised that from her song lyrics, both from listening to her practice, but also from glancing at the scribbled sheets sticking out of her bed drawer, covered in crossings-out and corrections. It explained her familiarity with the school and yet her independence. Anoushka was new, and she didn’t seem to want to make friends. She hid behind her accent and a bottle of vodka, even though Kelly knew she could speak better English than that. She wondered if her father’s time here would be short, and that’s why she wasn’t settling. Then there was Chelsea, a new student who hung off the Queen Bees - JJ in particular. Her hair fell in perfect natural ringlets, and she was already tall and willowy for her age; Kelly could definitely see her joining them. Taylor, who defended her dark skin even when no-one had mentioned it, popped gum so naturally that she landed straight in with the chavs, along with an apparently-impressive three stints in ‘Aylesbury’ for stealing cars. Kelly found that out when Mackenzie whispered it with reverence to Chantelle, a fourth year, who regarded Taylor with a newfound respect afterwards. Andrea, a mousy-haired, reserved girl with kind eyes, said very little to anyone, but Kelly noted the wistful looks she threw towards the darker end of the dorm and silently handed her an unopened eyeliner Margot had given her (”you can’t have too many, Kelly!”). Andrea had stared at her, and smiled tentatively, taking it without comment. After that, Kelly saw her speaking quietly to the emos while tugging nervously on her right sleeve, from under which poked a creamy bandage like the one Eleanor had had to wear on her twisted ankle two years before. Her eyeliner developed from smoky to bold in the week off, and Kelly couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her in the past. Janey was much more established with her gothic identity. She wore dark lipstick and had a collection of knives on display on her bedside table, which she regularly handled and examined, turning them over and over and testing their points against her fingertips. Kelly thought it a strange habit, but it wasn’t one that worried her, for when this became dull, Janey could be seen sharpening hockey sticks, wooden stakes and the odd set of arrows, rather than burying the knives in herself or anyone else. Lastly, there was Lola. She was the least mature of them all, with hair a blonder red than Polly’s and with Chelsea’s ringlets that straggled into loose ponytails halfway down her back. She was the only one who fell into the category of both timid, and not new to the school; Kelly noted that she spent all of the time she wasn’t sleeping with the lower school, and joined in enthusiastically with the raucousness and carefree joviality instilled in them all. However, when she was in the dorm, she was studious, and she seemed most wordless and starstruck when around Polly.</p><p>Satisfied with her progress, Kelly filed away her observations, keeping them to herself. It was a strange new world, this school, but it pleased her to know that the structure of her old home was not the norm.</p><p>Polly wasn’t a natural observer, not like Kelly was, but she’d seen Kelly watching. It was this side of the girl - the calmness and maturity, the scheming she could almost see behind her eyes - that convinced her that Kelly Jones had a lot of things planned. While Kelly was busy with her people project, though, Polly was much more interested in trying to unravel more immediate problems - like the fact that she hadn’t spoken to Oliver since the first day of term, and the fact that she had no idea how or when she’d be going home for Christmas. </p><p>When she analysed the problem, it seemed to come down to money. Polly had none since her taxi journey to the school, and she needed money to buy her tickets home. Without a computer, she couldn’t hack a paid-for trip again, after all… nor could she purchase a computer, a ticket home or a phone without any money. It was a catch twenty-two.</p><p>Luckily for her, the computers arrived just two days into the week off, at which point she was already sick of the sight of the library and wondering where the staff managed to hide when they weren’t required to teach. </p><p>She was sat in the tower when a delivery van nosed into view through the trees and trundled cautiously up the drive. She watched it idly to begin with, then realised exactly what it could be carrying and shot up, hurrying downstairs as fast as she could.</p><p>Hovering around the entrance hall, she watched as Beverley - clueless as ever - stuttered over the details and spoke into her intercom. Miss Fritton’s response wasn’t polite, and Polly felt a pang of sympathy for the receptionist, who was evidently out of her depth.</p><p>“Well, I dunno where she wants them, then,” she mused aloud, and Polly saw an opportunity.</p><p>She stepped forward nervously. “Would you like me to show the way to an empty classroom?” She asked politely.</p><p>Beverley stared at her, and Polly realised she wasn’t living up to the standard St. Trinian student’s behavioural code. </p><p>“Would you?” Beverley finally asked, smiling. “There’d be a Smirn-Off in it for you - two, if they both come back fully clothed and uninjured.”</p><p>The two delivery men looked startled, and Polly smiled widely. </p><p>“They will,” she promised, adding silently, and not because I want any Smirn-Off.</p><p>So it was that twelve brand new - and very good, Polly noted - computers were installed, with internet, in the spare room directly across from the dorms. They must have cost a small fortune, Polly reflected, wondering how much the school’s budget was.</p><p>It took less than ten minutes for Kelly to join Polly in the little room, where the delivery men had just begun putting in the wiring. Polly wasn’t quite sure how she did it, but she always managed to be where there was something going on, be it a fight, a lesson, or a change like this one. It was like a sixth sense.</p><p>Kelly raised a questioning eyebrow at Polly, who threw her a cautionary glance.</p><p>“There are some desks in a spare classroom downstairs you could use,” she suggested in her best helpful voice as one of the two men cast about helplessly for somewhere to put the monitor. “They’re just downstairs, first corridor on the left.”</p><p>“Might be fun getting them up here, ey Steve?” One addressed the other, slapping his shoulder, and Steve smiled a mostly-toothless smile at Polly and ducked through the low door.</p><p>Once their footsteps had faded, Kelly turned back to Polly. “I take it you’re not just being helpful for the sake of it,” she said. “There’s a plan here.”</p><p>Polly shrugged. “Beverley didn’t know where they needed to be, and Miss Fritton didn’t care,” she explained, waving a hand at the computers. “So I took an opportunity.”</p><p>Kelly studied her and smiled. “You know, I think you’ve got a fan in Lola. You could start your own tribe… I don’t suppose there’s been much technology here before.”</p><p>“They had computers before. They just got rid of them,” Polly replied. “But I guess if they were old… maybe more people will be interested now.” She shrugged. “In the meantime, I’ll be learning in a quiet room, which works fine for me.”</p><p>With desks being shifted and blocking the whole stairwell to the dorms, Polly and Kelly escaped together to the tower for the first time in the holiday so far.</p><p>From there, they could see a fistfight between some of the lower school students, and hear the chants - ‘fight, fight, fight’ - and Miss Fritton’s high-pitched provocations vaguely in the bitter breeze. They watched it for fifteen minutes, and then it turned into an all-out brawl, and Polly sighed, still taken aback by the low-key undercurrent of danger permanently present. </p><p><em>God, how did this place get like this?</em> She wondered.</p><p>The brawl contracted as a couple of wounded extracted themselves. It took another ten minutes for Cleaver’s voice to bark, “Hand-to-hand only! Put those hockey sticks down!”</p><p>Kelly too was wondering just how the school’s norm had become so off-the-wall.</p><p>Although she didn’t feel caged here, hemmed in like she had at the home, she still felt the itch to get out and explore beyond the school walls. She’d accepted this bizarre war zone as her new normal, sliding into a routine and moulding herself to fit it, but she wanted to know how it matched up to life in a standard town, or an office job in the city. She wanted to know about cars, about buildings, about cooking and cleaning and the postal service and the police service. She wanted to know about everything she didn’t know, and she wanted to see how easily she could slide into a gap there.</p><p>Suddenly restless, she stood. “I want to explore more,” she said. “Find something.”</p><p>Polly, who was itching to check on the progress downstairs, stood too, and shivered. Winter was definitely coming.</p><p>After that, the girls only saw one another in the dorm, for Polly was spending every waking moment on the computers - often with three or four on the go at once - and Kelly was prowling like a hungry lioness, noting habits and patterns, trying to see a standard in the chaos.</p>
<hr/><p>By the end of the break, Kelly had managed to corner Rhian outside her room. </p><p>“Hi. I’m Kelly Jones,” she told her, holding out her hand.</p><p>“Hello, Kelly Jones. I’ve just put on some very fancy hand cream, so I’m not shaking.” Rhian turned her back and entered her head girl’s room, holding the door open.</p><p>Kelly lowered her hand and raised an eyebrow, following her in. “I had a bit of an epiphany.”</p><p>“What’s one of those?” Rhian asked, producing a lipstick and compact.</p><p>She sighed. “A realisation.”</p><p>“Oh yes? What about?” Rhian seemed disinterested, but then gasped, snapping her compact closed. “Oh, em, gee, is it about Ruth Langsford? I so think she’ll come back, she was such an amazing panelist!”</p><p>Kelly rolled her eyes. “Not Loose Women, Rhian. St. Trinian’s.”</p><p>The head girl fell back into her make-up touch up, pouting. “What about it?”</p><p>“I’ve been watching the tribes, and there have been an average of twelve fights a week since the start of term.”</p><p>Rhian sighed. “Which is normal, and good training for the rest of the world. You’re never going to stop it. Just because you don’t fit in with any of them, not even the first years, doesn’t mean you get to mess up the system.” She gathered up her makeup, standing from her vanity stool.</p><p>“I’m not trying to,” Kelly interrupted smoothly, barely noticing the insult. “But this school prepares us for the real world, right? Why not bring the real world in?”</p><p>Rhian looked at her, mystified. “Like, the whole globe, in here?”</p><p>Kelly choked on her laughter. “No. But we don’t go to lessons here and get qualifications after that can help us get jobs, do we? So imagine instead that we bring work in. Roxy wants to be a musician, we open the odd party to the locals to get her spotted. Anoushka wants to create a vodka line, let’s set up a brewery in that empty classroom near the labs, and when she leaves here, she’ll have six years’ experience and an established brand to her name.”</p><p>Rhian turned to face her properly. “You’re serious.”</p><p>Kelly nodded. “Completely. There’s a lot of preparation that needs doing first, and none of it will be strictly legal. And we’d need a fence. But everyone here has a skill, don’t they? So let’s use them.”</p><p>Rhian stared at her, and a slow smile spread across her face. </p><p>“I think I know a guy. But it will take a while.”</p>
<hr/><p>It took precisely three weeks, and they were already half way to Christmas. There had been a Halloween party, which had been the scariest night of Kelly and Polly’s lives, with practical jokes and real scares attacking without mercy. And there had been a bonfire night party that came dangerously close to burning down the old hangar/stable block, and smouldered for a week. </p><p>Kelly knew it wasn’t that long in the grand scheme of things, but she was impatient, and she’d doubled up her training to reign it in, often now going in the evenings as well as the mornings to take out some of her frustration on a heavy bag.</p><p>“Meeting is tonight during the party,” Rhian told her quickly as they passed on the stairs.</p><p>“What’s this party for?” Kelly asked, amazed. </p><p>“Do we need a reason?” She laughed, twirling, and Kelly stared after her, shaking her head.</p><p>The party was in full swing when Rhian finally appeared, standing beside Kelly, who was resting her hip on the doorframe.</p><p>“Here he comes.”</p><p>Headlights pierced the darkness and the girls watched them roll closer, until a bus came into view.</p><p>A number of schoolboys, all older than Kelly, hopped down and filed past them, heading down the stairs without prompting.</p><p>Kelly raised a single eyebrow, and Rhian shrugged. “Makes for a more interesting party,” she pointed out. Kelly smirked and looked back at the bus, graffiti-free, unlike their own, to watch its driver emerge and stride over the gravel.</p><p>“Rhian,” he breathed, pressing a kiss to her hand.</p><p>“Mike,” she replied, batting her eyes and giggling. “This is Kelly, one of our new students.”</p><p>The man - Kelly guessed he was younger than Rick, but older than Theo - peered down at her through ice blue eyes and smiled, lifting her hand and brushing his lips over her knuckles. “Pleasure,” he told her, and Kelly thought, <em>you’re wishing I wasn’t here so you could spend some quality time with Rhian, you liar.</em></p><p>She thought detachedly that perhaps the English classes she’d overhead had been a bad influence on her.</p><p>The meeting was complex and Mike seemed wary. “So you haven’t produced anything yet? There’s no guarantees at all that any of this will come off?”</p><p>Kelly sighed. “It can’t, unless we’re connected. After that, we’re limitless.”</p><p>Mike considered her for a moment.</p><p>“And you know it’s completely illegal and if you get caught, I’ll be going down, like, all the way?”</p><p>“Only if we get caught.”</p><p>He scowled at her, thinking.</p><p>“I’ll get you what you need, no charge. And then you start. But there’s no deal until I can see what you’ve made.”</p><p>“Timescale?”</p><p>“You’ll have what you need by Monday. Five days. After that, the timescale is free. Your pace, your way.”</p><p>Kelly frowned. “What’s the catch?”</p><p>Mike shook his head. “No catch. Just my name kept out of it until I can see what you’ve got.”</p><p>Kelly sniffed and held out her hand.</p><p>Mike shook it.</p>
<hr/><p>Finally, Kelly felt it was time to explain to Polly.</p><p>She wasn’t sure how she’d take it, with her religious background, and she spent an extra half-hour at the bag that morning, psyching herself up.</p><p>“Pol,” she began on the way down the dorm room stairs to breakfast, “could we talk a sec?”</p><p>Intrigued, for they rarely spoke besides facts, Polly agreed, following her to the spare bedroom and out onto the roof. She knew something was going on, but she was focused on her lessons at the moment, and also feeling nostalgic, for Christmas was coming and she missed the church. Her various memories from her first two schools kept coming back to her, especially her first, rocky term at the first one and the wonderful first term of her final year, leaning about Islamic practices and the Arabic language.</p><p>In fact, she thought her and Kelly had drifted a little. Not that they’d ever really been close, she supposed. But between that and missing Oliver, Polly had ended up focusing ever more on understanding money, for she supposed she needed to start trying to earn some in the not-too-distant future. Oliver and his mother’s charity could only carry her so far morally, and his mother’s illness wasn’t conducive to working for spare money either.</p><p>“Pol, you with me?” Polly came back down to earth to find herself stood in the tower’s doorway, one foot on the top step, Kelly already in the open and looking at her with concern.</p><p>She shook herself. “Sure. Sorry,” she replied, climbing the last step and pulling the door shut behind her.</p><p>“I’ve sourced you a phone. You’ll have it after the weekend,” Kelly told her without preamble, dark lips pressed together.</p><p>Polly stared, and then a slow smile spread across her face and she threw her arms around her.</p><p>Kelly stiffened, and then patted her on the back awkwardly. “You might be less impressed when you hear how,” she mumbled.</p><p>Polly let go, unable to wipe the smile away. “I’m honestly not sure I care,” she chuckled. “Thank you.”</p><p>Kelly leaned on the tower wall, staring out across the foggy grounds, seemingly unaffected by the chilly dampness of the air.</p><p>“I need to tell you anyway,” she said quietly. “Pol, I had an idea. About making this place less about tribe rivalries and more about life experience, cultivating interests and generating income.”</p><p>Polly’s smile was replaced with a look of concentration. “You’re starting a business?”</p><p>Kelly cocked her head. “That’s one way of putting it,” she agreed. “The school would be the business, though. I think people would go to lessons, teachers too, if they were making something worthwhile.”</p><p>Polly’s mind ran suddenly with ideas. “Theatres would pay handsomely for the costumes, and some of the paintings must be worth a fair bit,” she suggested.</p><p>“Good idea,” Kelly replied, making a mental note and filing it safely in the box she’d created for this exact situation. It was full of mental notes in various writing styles from her time in the gym, which is where she seemed to be able to think best.</p><p>“I could do some outreach to these sorts of people, and some businesses, and drum up some interest…”</p><p>Kelly sighed. “Perfect, Polly, but I need you to listen a minute. This isn’t just genuine business. It will take time, but eventually, there will be some illegal bits too.”</p><p>Polly considered that, waiting for her moral compass to protest, but it didn’t. <em>Oh, god, have you abandoned me? Have I abandoned you? Was I ever good enough? </em>She thought back to taking the money from the church donations box.</p><p>“Anything that will harm people?”</p><p>Kelly chewed her lip. “Not directly,” she hedged. “And not with that intent. Like alcohol.”</p><p>Polly considered the answer. “And the money goes where?”</p><p>“That’s where I need your help. A spare school account, well-hidden, well-protected, for emergencies. And students can apply for use of it for different projects, so we can fund ourselves. Eventually it can help students travel home, or buy new uniform, or improve the school equipment.”</p><p>Polly smiled. “Sounds perfect,” she agreed. </p><p>Kelly breathed a sigh of relief.</p>
<hr/><p>After that, Polly couldn’t talk to Kelly often enough. Her brain was running wild with ideas, now unbounded by law or by morality, but purely by imagination.</p><p>Rhian had told Kelly that any ideas had to go through her, and Kelly got the distinct impression she was going to sell them as her own, but she didn’t really care. The girls made plan after plan, refining and tweaking.</p><p>The girls spent many days discussing ideas and their practicalities, and Kelly’s knowledge of law - from reading all the law books while trying to work out how, exactly, she was to find a place at school - became incredibly useful, so they could plan ways to avoid it.</p><p>When the phone, laptop and internet hub arrived, passed in a cardboard box to a confused Beverley, Kelly - who saw Mike leave from her usual position on the roof - flew downstairs and at full tilt into the entrance hall to collect them. "They're early!" She hissed as she summoned Polly out of the library from its doorway, box balanced precariously on one forearm as she beckoned energetically with the other.</p><p>Polly unpacked the box with shaking fingers and flipped the phone open, hovering over numbers. Then she shook her head and set up the laptop first, explaining to Kelly as she did so that she would shield the location and IP address of both devices from any outside view just as she had with the room full of computers already, tapping and clicking away with cables running from her bed to three different power points. Kelly wasn’t completely sure what she meant, but understood that it was to protect them all.</p><p>Kelly had only ever seen computers on those job trips they took and in shops when she snuck out. She watched in fascination as Polly clicked and tapped and typed, and the screen changed, changed, changed again.</p><p>Finally, she said, “It’s done.” She sat back and rubbed her eyes. “What day is it?”</p><p>“Er… Saturday, I think.” Kelly listened hard and then nodded. “The weekend. No war games.”</p><p>Polly’s hand strayed to the phone. “Do you mind if I…?”</p><p>“Sure.” Kelly stood up and moved back to her own bed, reaching for her exercise book and a pencil, and leaving Polly to talk.</p><p>“Hi, Mrs. Johnson.”</p><p>“Polly, is that you?”</p><p>“Yeah, it is. I finally have access to a phone…how are you?”</p><p>“Oh, I’m chugging along, dear. It’s so nice to hear from you. How are you getting on?”</p><p>Polly cast around for a way to explain. “I…great, yeah. Thank you. It’s not the most traditional education, but I think it suits me.”</p><p>“Good, good. I’ll just shout Ollie for you.”</p><p>Polly heard her weak shout, and the coughing that followed. She winced sympathetically.</p><p>“Pol?”</p><p>“Hey, Ollie.”</p><p>“Oh my god, I thought she was going mad!”</p><p>Polly laughed. “How are you? How’s top juniors?”</p><p>“It’s great. I’ve applied to the grammar school for seniors, and I took the entry exam last week, so I’m just waiting for the results.”</p><p>“That’s amazing! You’ll have aced it!”</p><p>“We’ll see. What about you, what are you doing?”</p><p>“Er, a lot of research,” Polly hedged. “Lots of projects on the go. Doing a really interesting topic on law at the moment, and, er, business, so pretty fascinating stuff.”</p><p>Ollie chuckled. “Sounds it, Pol, it really does.”</p><p>Polly glanced around the almost-empty dorm and lowered her voice. “Ollie, I don’t suppose… have you seen my parents?”</p><p>Kelly’s ears pointed, and she strained not to react, continuing to write smoothly.</p><p>“Neither of them?”</p><p>“Sorry, Pol, I don’t go to the cathedral. I can go if you want though.”</p><p>“It’s okay. I just wondered whether mum had stayed.”</p><p>He sighed. “I knew there was something going on.”</p><p>Polly shook her head. “Never mind. Anyway, about Christmas. I can stay here for the holidays, if you guys prefer.”</p><p>“Don’t be silly, we’d love to see you!”</p><p>Polly swallowed. “I’ll let you know when the holidays start then, shall I? Once I’ve figured out how to get back.”</p><p>“Definitely. Oh, but Pol?” he lowered his voice. “With all this with mum being ill, she’s not fond of the idea of god right now. I know it’s your beliefs, but… she gets all angry about the unjustness of it all, and what the point is.”</p><p>Polly laughed, although it was half-hearted. “Honestly, Ollie, I’m not sure what I believe any more.” She thought about Javid. “Wadaeaan, Ollie. I’ll call again.”</p><p>“Bye, Pol.”</p><p>Kelly sighed softly, not even noticing the Arabic. “You okay?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Polly stared down at the phone, then held it out to Kelly. “Want to call anyone?”</p><p>Kelly stared at the phone, the simplicity of the question, and then at Polly, innocent and kind. Her mouth quirked up at the corners and she shook her head.</p><p>“No, thanks.”</p>
<hr/><p>A few days after that, Polly had run into a problem.</p><p>“Accounts have to be opened with money,” she explained to Kelly. “Most only need £1, but you still can’t open it with nothing, and banks aren’t simple to just hack.”</p><p>Kelly thought. “Would one of those plastic cards do the trick?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“And how do you feel about stealing that £1 from a stranger?”</p><p>The little crease between Polly’s eyebrows deepened. “Just the £1?”</p><p>“Just the £1.”</p><p>Polly shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, sure. How?”</p><p>Kelly smiled. “I’ve wanted to try the motorbikes for a while. Give me a week or two, and I’ll have it.”</p><p>And indeed, it took her a week and a half to find out who the motorbikes belonged to (Roxy’s  music teacher was an ex-biker after all), and persuade Cleaver to give her some lessons.</p><p>They were dirt bikes, and powerful ones. It took Kelly a few days to get used to the throttle and brakes without tipping onto a single wheel, but she got the same thrill from the motorbikes as Dan’s car.</p><p>One morning, before her workout, she hurried to the shed containing the bikes she’d been learning on, and punctured a tyre with the very tip of a knife she’d lifted from the goth’s end of the dorm.</p><p>When she went out later for her lesson, the tyre had almost completely deflated. It was a slow puncture, just as she’d hoped.</p><p>Cleaver swore, and Kelly smiled. “That’s okay, miss. I saw a garage on my way here. Why don’t I take it there? If we pump it up, it will last until we arrive.”</p><p>Cleaver nodded. “Good initiative, I like it. Tyres aren’t free, though, are they?” She considered a moment, then put her hands to her mouth and loosed a deafening shout. “Maupassant!”</p><p>Kelly stared at her.</p><p>It took a few minutes, but the suave languages teacher poked her head out of the dining room door. Kelly supposed it was the closest exit to their basement bedrooms.</p><p>She strode over, looking put-out. “Oui?”</p><p>“You seen that Harry recently?”</p><p>“Si.”</p><p>“Has he refilled the petty box?”</p><p>Kelly had no idea what was going on, but Miss Maupassant clearly did. She pulled a wad of notes from an inside pocket.</p><p>“Jones here is going to get a tyre replaced. She’ll need some.”</p><p>Miss Maupassant smiled indulgently at Kelly and counted out three red notes, handing them over. “Apporter le changement,” she told her, and turned away, swaying her hips as she walked. </p><p>“Apporter le changement,” Cleaver mocked, and ducked into the shed to dig around for a pump.</p><p>It took twenty minutes to reinflate the tyre, and then Kelly was off, flying down the leafy lane of the school, hair blowing back off her face and a laugh bubbling from her chest.</p><p>She slowed down at the main road. She didn’t know the speed limit, but she’d probably broken it, and she was certain helmets were law, so she drew as little attention to herself as possible.</p><p>The garage wasn’t open when she arrived, and she set the bike on its stand and leaned casually against it, observing Margot’s house. It looked deserted; perhaps she was still asleep.</p><p>Fifteen minutes later, a sputtering car drew up beside her, and a dark-haired man Kelly would guess was in his mid-thirties peered out at her in surprise. </p><p>He cut his engine and climbed out, a grease-covered rag hanging from his pocket and a tribal tattoo peeking from his sweatshirt collar. “Good morning, luv,” he said cautiously. </p><p>“Hi. This bike has a slow puncture on its front tyre.” Kelly folded her arms and raised her eyebrow in challenge. “Although, from the sound your car is making, I’m not sure here’s the best place to bring it.”</p><p>The man stared at her for a moment, then chuckled. “St. Trinian, are you? Come on, then, let’s have a look. No questions asked.” He held out his hand. “I’m Pete.”</p><p>“Kelly.” She shook, then turned and kicked the stand off to wheel the bike in.</p><p>Pete reached over and took the keys. “Don’t leave em in if you don’t have to,” he advised, and led the way to the sliding doors, pulling his own key out to undo the padlock. “And by the way, my car’s like that because I’m usually too busy here to work on it, but I’ve got some time this morning. Get the feeling you’re a bit of a petrol head, if you wanna stay and see.”</p><p>Kelly refused to admit how much that excited her.</p>
<hr/><p>Three hours later, she knew how to refill a washer bottle, check and top up the oil, open a car bonnet, and reinflate and change a car or motorbike tyre. She’d identified the main parts of the engine and had a crash course on how a piston engine worked, including the role of the clutch in changing gear.</p><p>She had a fresh tyre on the bike, a receipt and some change in her pocket for Miss Maupassant - Pete’s eyes had nearly popped out of his head when she’d produced three fifties - and, tucked carefully in her waistband, a bank card, swiped from a customer who popped in for a new headlight bulb and carelessly left his wallet out on the counter while he watched Pete fit it. </p><p>And she was whooping and laughing as she flew, weaving, down the lane back to school.</p><p>She dropped the bike off first, waving to Cleaver, who was mid-flow about the five S’s (shape, silhouette, shine, spacing, shadow), and headed inside to Miss Maupassant’s usual classroom, which was actually upstairs near science, despite the languages department being the floor below. <em>What’s anyone going to say in a school with no rules?, </em>Kelly thought to herself, and knocked.</p><p>“Hola, senorita. Tu cambio, muchas gracias,” Kelly tried. Her Spanish was still poor, but she knew words, if not grammar.</p><p>“Gracias, Kelly, adelante, adelante.” She beckoned Kelly in and took the change, comparing it to receipt with surprise. “Ninguna toma!”</p><p>Kelly took a moment to work out what she’d said, and what she meant by it. “Oh, no, miss,” she said, shaking her head. She wasn’t really sure why not, when she considered it. She could have, but somehow it felt more wrong to take money needlessly from someone familiar than to take the stranger’s bank card for a (mostly) good cause.</p><p>Perhaps her morals were screwed, she thought, feeling the plastic cut into her skin as she shifted. </p><p>“Puedo ensenarte algo? Puis-je vous apprendre quelque chose?”</p><p>Kelly shrugged, nodding, and watched with interest as she pulled out a pack of cards. </p><p>“Blackjack?” Miss Maupassant asked.</p><p>Kelly shook her head; she’d heard of the game, but had no idea how to play.</p><p>She put the card deck down, disappointed. “You, er… investigacion, recherche, si? Puis reviens.”</p><p>Intrigued, Kelly nodded. “Merci,” she smiled, and left, hurrying up to the dorms, where Polly was sat on her bed, wringing her hands.</p><p>“Thank god!” She hissed. “I thought you’d come off the bloody thing!”</p><p>It took Kelly a moment to realise she meant the motorbike. “Oh, no, I love it,” she replied, grinning and reaching for the card.</p><p>Polly took a moment to study her and laughed. “Kelly Jones, besides the time you puked up your drinks, I’ve never seen you look so out of control.”</p><p>Kelly stopped and looked up at her, an eyebrow raised.</p><p>“Your hair’s a state, and your shirt’s all untucked where you’re digging for whatever you’re…digging for, and you’ve got grease on your face.”</p><p>The card slid against her fingers and Kelly gripped it, pulling it free and presenting it to Polly triumphantly, already smoothing down her hair with the other side.</p><p>Polly took it, giggling, and turned to her computer. </p><p>“I’m going for a shower,” Kelly announced, and Polly’s giggles became muffled laughter. </p><p>“Good idea, miss mechanic.”</p>
<hr/><p>By the end of term two weeks later, Polly had a bank account - offshore, whatever that meant, and in the name of Trinarmy Enterprises, so it wasn’t too similar to the school itself - open and running, with just £1 in it. By unspoken agreement, they’d cut the bank card up afterwards, and Polly was trying very hard to forget the numbers, but that only seemed to make her incredible memory hold onto it harder.</p><p>Kelly had learned the rules of blackjack, and watched in fascination as Miss Maupassant dealt for the Queen Bees and the game unfolded before her. If there was some way of working out what everyone’s hands are, she thought. Like now, I can see everyone’s cards but JJ’s, and if we had some kind of code, I’d be able to tell her… she could never lose. And so began another avenue of research.</p>
<hr/><p>The end of term party was like no others before it, and there had been a few. Kelly drank again, but not as much as last time, and even Polly tried some of Anoushka’s sweeter, weaker cocktails. Mike brought some of the boys he’d brought last time, and he himself was dressed as Santa Claus, which was all fun and games until Polly decided to get some fresh air and found Santa Claus giving Theo one hell of a Christmas gift. She returned to Kelly’s side, pale as a ghost, and whispered harshly and indecently exactly what she’d just seen, and Kelly wasn’t sure which was funnier - her expression, the whole situation, or the fact that the English lessons had so widened her vocabulary.</p><p>The morning after dawned with a shellshocked Polly still working out what exactly she’d witnessed while Kelly - who’d attended more English lessons than Polly anyhow, and who had after all grown up with girls of varying ages - sat beside her and laughed quietly. It was times like this that Kelly realised how different their childhoods had been; both sheltered, in their own ways, and yet neither innocent. </p><p>It was a St. Trinian’s curse, and a gift, she supposed.</p><p>And then it was time for everyone to leave; by the end of the day after the party, the whole school was covered in tinsel, baubles and gaudy lights, and students were vanishing one by one, onto buses, into cars and taxis.</p><p>Kelly waved to Polly as she hopped onto one of the school buses, which would take her as far as the next town. From there, she was getting a train. She’d be home by morning, not that Kelly was completely sure where home was for her or what it looked like.</p><p>The quiet was unnerving in such a usually chaotic school. Kelly took a deep breath in, savouring the silence and missing the noise at the same time, and jumped when the door behind her creaked.</p><p>“Now, girlie. What are you going to do with yourself for the next two weeks?”</p><p>Kelly sighed. “I have a few things to do, miss. But I’d also like to go into the town, if I may.”</p><p>Miss Fritton laughed. “You’re not confined to campus, even during term time. Or that would be a rule, would it not?” She raised questioning eyebrows and waved her away. “Run along, now. There are a couple left from the lower school as well.”</p><p>She turned away, humming, and Kelly watched her go, wondering what to do first.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Christmas To Summer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Polly’s journey was long, but more direct, since she simply got a series of trains from A to B, rather than going via Essex. She was relieved not to have to deal with the Underground; it was sure to be busy with Christmas shoppers.</p><p>She passed four postboxes, and sighed wistfully. Her letters still hadn’t been posted, because she’d no stamps.</p><p>She revelled in the silence and independence of travel. She wasn’t looking over her shoulder for the next person to scoff at the computer screen, or ducking as screaming sporty kids swung lacrosse sticks around their heads. She didn’t have to argue with Taylor about how disgusting it was leaving chewed gum on the table for later, or escape the dorm before some kind of satanic ritual began in the corner.</p><p>She slid her glasses off while the ticket man came by, and pulled out an exercise book, turning to a drawing she’d done with as much childlike scribbling as possible while she waited in the station. She shrank in her seat, trying to look as small as possible. </p><p>“Have you got a ticket, love?” He asked kindly, and then, glancing at her drawing and the frown of concentration on her face as she tried to colour between the lines, tongue between her teeth, he added, “Or an adult?”</p><p>Polly finished her segment and looked up through her lashes. “You checked my mummy’s tickets before, but I moved to a table seat so I could colour,” she told him earnestly, making her voice childlike and singsong. “Do I need to go back?”</p><p>He stared at her for a moment, and then smiled kindly. “No, you enjoy your colouring, sweetheart.”</p><p>Polly watched him go and allowed herself a tiny, victorious smile.</p><p>Maybe drama had its uses after all.</p>
<hr/><p>Polly stumbled up Steep Hill, relieved she’d chosen to leave her uniform and most of her clothes at school. She was exhausted.</p><p>Finally reaching Oliver’s door, she cursed as she realised she hadn’t phoned ahead.</p><p>She knocked tentatively and waited as footsteps pattered around inside, and then the door was opened a crack.</p><p>“Polly!” Oliver threw the door open and pulled her into the tightest hug. She dropped her case and squeezed him back, laughing and crying.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I forgot to call.”</p><p>He shook his head wordlessly, hand on her cheek, and beckoned her inside, reaching for her case himself.</p><p>“Hello, dear girl.”</p><p>“Hi, Mrs Johnson.” Polly hugged her carefully and kissed her cheek. “How are you?”</p><p>“Oh, you know. Worse than yesterday, better than tomorrow.” The dry sense of humour made Polly smile. “Come on, then. What have you got to tell us?”</p><p>Polly, making St. Trinian’s sound less chaotic and more like a normal school, chattered excitedly about some of what she’d learned, sitting against the wall in the Johnson’s tiny lounge. It grew late as she and Oliver traded school stories and his mother listened, smiling, to them both.</p><p>Finally, she heaved herself upright and put a steadying hand to the sofa arm. “I must get some sleep,” she told them, swaying. Oliver hurried to her side and supported her as she took tentative steps towards her bedroom door. “Are you alright in with this one again, Pol?” She indicated her son.</p><p>“Of course. Thank you,” Polly replied with all the warm sincerity she could verbalise. </p><p>“You just let me know when you’re not any more, hm? It won’t be long now, I’m sure.” She winked, and Polly frowned, not sure what she meant. She didn’t notice, though; she was concentrating on edging through the doorway to her room.</p><p>Oliver came back a moment later and sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder.</p><p>“She’s sparko already. I’ll have to help with her shower in the morning, since she’s missing it tonight.”</p><p>Polly nodded and laid her head on his arm. “Sorry for messing up your routine,” she told him. “If there’s anything I can do…”</p><p>He kissed her hair. “Get us both a drink, and help yourself to some food. I’m bagging the bathroom first.” And he was up in a flash, Polly laughing as she stood. He always managed to give her a job without making her feel like she had to do it, or like she was being a burden. He let her help, and she loved him for it.</p>
<hr/><p>Polly woke first in the morning, unable to break her usual cycle. Oliver’s room was much quieter than the dorms, even though it was in a tiny two-bed flat above a shop on one of the busiest tourist streets in the city. His sleep-regulated breathing huffed over her hair, which was loose and wild, and his arm was slung protectively across her waist.</p><p>It took almost an hour for him to wake, and Polly was the reason. She was trying to shift, slowly, gently, so she didn’t wake him up, but she was pinned against him and the wall and her arm was numb. She was doing well on not jostling him, but she reckoned without her curls.</p><p>Oliver sniffled, nose twitching, and woke himself up with a tickle that quickly turned into a sneeze.</p><p>He looked down at the offending red mop and smiled. “Morning, Pol.”</p><p>She sighed. “Sorry, Ollie.”</p><p>He squeezed her. “Don’t be. Sleep well?”</p><p>Polly shrugged. “It’s quieter than the dorms. Makes my brain move faster,” she said by way of response.</p><p>“Whatcha thinking about?”</p><p>She turned over to face him, hands on his chest. He ran his up and down her back, the material familiar, the sight of her in his old pyjamas making him smile despite himself.</p><p>“What your mum said,” she admitted. “What did she mean, it won’t be long until this…” she gestured helplessly between them.</p><p>Oliver sighed. “Your mum didn’t talk to you about this?”</p><p>Polly glared at him. “My mum didn’t speak to me or near me for months before I left.” Her anger dissipated almost as soon as it appears, the steady movement of his hand pushing it away. “Sorry,” she mumbled.</p><p>“Don’t be.” He sighed, thinking for a moment, and then lifted her chin with a single finger to bring her eyes to his. “There’s a lot to learn, Pol. You learn from books and computers and research, from independence in education. I learn from this role I have at home, from acting the adult. We’re going to know different things.”</p><p>Polly nodded, and he hugged her close and began to talk.</p><p>He told her about the products he had to buy for his mother, and the showering rituals he went through with her each day. How these changed every few weeks or so. How the medication she’d been on to stop the bleeding had reacted badly with her normal medication, and how she’d apologised to him, over and over, for having to come off it, for him having to deal with that on top of everything else.</p><p>He explained the human reproductive system and the cycle of the body, and how it would all come about and when, and the idea that it was the start of being a woman, the start of sexuality, adulthood.</p><p>He talked in a low monotone, scientifically and detachedly, emotional only when the conversation was about his mother, and Polly knew it was for her benefit, because that was a language she understood.</p><p>She listened, disbelieving, as he talked about the hormonal ups and downs, the pain, and it took her only a moment to reflect on the first three months at St. Trinian’s and note a pattern in style changes, mood swings, laundry increases. She rested her forehead on his chest, listening to his voice echo through his chest, and wondered whether the ticking clock she could feel within her now had always been there, or if it had only just appeared.</p><p>There was a long silence when he’d finished. </p><p>“Are you alright?” He asked quietly, when it became too much.</p><p>Polly was thinking about what she’d found out when her parents’ room began emitting those awful noises. About how kissing was different with Oliver than with adults. She wondered whether that’s what he meant by ‘becoming a woman’.</p><p>She didn’t know how to ask him, and said instead, carefully, “So we wouldn’t be able to share a room because… because…”</p><p>Oliver sighed. “Because kids share rooms, but adults… adults only really share rooms if they’re… you know.”</p><p>Polly bit her lip. “Ollie, we’ve been kissing for years.”</p><p>He nodded. “Yes.”</p><p>“So does that have to change?”</p><p>He pulled back from her so he could see her face, and Polly, knowing it was creeping towards the same colour as her hair, avoided his eyes.</p><p>“Not if you don’t want it to,” he told her seriously.</p><p>She smiled tentatively. “Because it… it meant something, right?”</p><p>He put his thumbs on her cheeks and kissed her forehead. “It did to me, and we both grew up quicker than most, didn’t we?”</p><p>She reached up and locked her hands around his neck, sighing. </p>
<hr/><p>The Christmas holidays passed quietly. Oliver and his mother celebrated by making dinner and cakes together, rather than exchanging gifts, and Polly had no money to buy gifts anyway, so it was a tradition she was more than happy to get involved with. It was the most relaxing Christmas break she’d ever had, with no masses, charity drives, carol services or crib services to attend; and yet, some of the magic was missing.</p><p>
  <em>Are you the magic, god? Or do I miss the tree and the lights and the sense of community more than the religion?</em>
</p><p>Polly was careful to keep her thoughts to herself, and she had to admit, watching Oliver’s mother weaken and rally every few days was enough to have anyone questioning their beliefs.</p><p><em>Allah, manh alsalam, </em>she thought a few times a day. <em>God, give peace.</em></p>
<hr/><p>It wasn’t until the night before she was due to return to St. Trinian’s that Polly asked the question she’d been agonising over since that first night.</p><p>“Ollie, have you ever kissed anyone else?”</p><p>He’d been almost asleep, his breathing just starting to even out. He sighed deeply and turned onto his back. “No,” he murmured. “Why?”</p><p>Polly sighed. “I don’t really know. I haven’t, either.”</p><p>Oliver rolled his head to the right to look at her. “Do you want to?”</p><p>“No, I just…” Polly frowned. She wasn’t really sure what she wanted. “I just have a lot to learn.”</p><p>He chuckled. “Don’t we all. What’s this about?”</p><p>Polly sighed. “So you know I told you about Kelly? I don’t think she’s much older than me, but she acts it, and she wears her clothes different and she has makeup and lipstick. And I don’t know whether she’s ever even kissed anyone before but she seems so much more aware of everything than me, and at the Christmas party I saw… I saw two guys…” she swallowed, “well, er, more than kissing, and she just didn’t even seem…bothered.”</p><p>Oliver laughed. “Polly, you have to remember that you grew up in church. Straight couples, public affection no more than the sort of kissing we’ve been doing for years, and kids that pop up out of nowhere. Where did this Kelly grow up?”</p><p>Polly shook her head. “I don’t know.” </p><p>“Well, wherever it was, she must have seen more than that, even if she hasn’t experienced it herself. That’s all.”</p><p>Polly chewed her lip. “She just seems so…clueless about some things.”</p><p>“We’re all clueless about some things, aren’t we?” He slid his arm under her and tugged her closer. “Stop worrying, hm?”</p><p>She sighed and nodded into his chest. “Okay,” she agreed. </p>
<hr/><p>She cried when she left. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go back to St. Trinian’s; she just didn’t want to leave him behind.</p><p>She hugged his mother gently, kissing her cheek and promising to call, and thanking her for letting her stay. She smiled fondly at her, tweaking one of her customary buns, and told her she was welcome any time, and her cleaning was much better than Oliver’s anyway, so she’d more than earned her keep.</p><p>Oliver walked her to the train station and she hugged him fiercely, tightly, and he chuckled breathlessly when she let go.</p><p>“You’ve got the phone now, Pol. I’m right at the other end of it.”</p><p>She kissed him, then, and it was still just closed lips against closed lips, and she wasn’t completely sure what the alternative was, but this kiss was different, almost bruising in its intensity. </p><p>He looked down at her, still growing much faster than she was, and smiled a dazed smile. “I’ll keep that safe til easter,” he promised, and she laughed at how silly he was.</p><p>She felt too grown up, then, to play the lost little girl on the train. She played instead a panicky teenager, whose ticket had been her bookmark and now she’d not only lost her ticket, but her page too. The conductor tutted and let her off, since she was heading back to school anyway and the train was full enough to make plenty of profit. Polly spent the whole journey thinking alternately about Oliver, and how she was going to get from the station back to school. The buses weren’t exactly predictable.</p><p>It turned out she didn’t need to worry, because Kelly was already there.</p>
<hr/><p>In the end, Kelly had spent the rest of that day simply walking the empty halls, revelling in the quiet.</p><p>She’d met the rest of the remaining students at dinner. There were two Queen Bee minimes, Peaches and Chloe, who were a year apart and spent the whole meal comparing eye shadow palettes, wearing the too-bright colours of kids new to make-up; and then a pair of twins in their second ever year at St. Trinian’s, who seemed incapable of speaking unless in stereo and made a game of stacking chairs on chairs on tables and then knocking them all down.</p><p>Kelly found herself smiling at the twins’ antics despite herself, recognising in them a desperation to explore that she herself was completely familiar with.</p><p>For the first three days, Kelly researched her blackjack strategy in the library, trained hard, and continued the map, deliberately switching off from the business side of things. Then, feeling suitably refreshed, she spent a day researching different alcohols and their recipes, identifying the simplest to make first.</p><p>She spent the day after that moving various bits of dusty equipment from the science labs into the entirely empty room at the end of the opposite corridor, via the showers, until she had everything she thought Anoushka might need.</p><p>Then she took a day off, screeching out through the front gates to Pete’s garage, where she spent a happy, messy day helping him to change the oil on a very muddy land rover. She had no hair bobbles, and she had to keep flicking her dark tresses back impatiently, hands too greasy to run through it, until Pete made her stand still while he wrapped an elastic band through it. She decided it needed to be shorter.</p><p>The next day, still with greasy hands after over an hour of scrubbing in hot soapy water, she knocked cautiously on Margot’s door. This time, no profanities were thrown, and Kelly stood nervously as the inspection began. </p><p>“Good job with the makeup, kid. Feeling a style change-up?” Margot finally asked, and Kelly took that to mean she’d passed as she stepped cautiously inside.</p><p>“Not exactly,” she hedged. “My hair’s too long.”</p><p>Margot appraised her critically. “It’s grown quite a bit,” she agreed. “How short are you thinking?”</p><p>Kelly shrugged. “Just out of the way.”</p><p>The ex-Queen Bee began leafing through magazines, and Kelly sidled up next to her, watching glossy celebrities flash by. “So how are you finding it? School?”</p><p>“Erm… good, yeah. Challenging.” Kelly smiled up at her. “It’s… I don’t really fit into any of the tribes. Not even first years.”</p><p>“I could have told you that.” Margot indicated a picture of a short, curly up-do and Kelly shook her head. “Mm, you’re right, that’s much more JJ,” Margot agreed, and carried on flicking. “Most people fit in a box, Kelly, but sometimes it’s by choice more than natural. And the tribes are the only stability in that place. If you don’t need them, don’t join them.”</p><p>Kelly turned her words over in her mind, and while she was doing so, a style caught her attention. Her hand shot out, blocking the pages from turning any further, and Margot opened the magazine wider.</p><p>“Hm,” she mused, considering it and nodding. “I think…with a nice full fringe, though, hm?”</p><p>Kelly squinted at the picture, mentally darkening the hair and adding the full fringe. Margot didn’t let her disagree, though, so Kelly was never quite sure what her answer would have been.</p><p>It took Margot half an hour to cut inches off Kelly’s hair and neaten it, and another fifteen minutes to put in the fringe. Kelly watched interestedly as the scissors flashed, realising that there was a lot more technique involved than the volunteers at the orphanage had ever grasped.</p><p>“There,” Margot announced. “Now, you’re a bit young yet, but this is a proper power bob, hm? So when you’re older, get some scarlet lippy on, and a nice high waisted skirt. Miss the top couple of buttons on your shirt, and bob’s your uncle.”</p><p>Kelly squinted at her reflection. “How young is too young?” She asked curiously.</p><p>Margot smiled at her. “When you’ve got boobs, and hips. When men can’t take their eyes off you. That’s when you’re old enough to pull it off. Now come on, I’ve got paying clients booked in. And for goodness’ sake, next time you do anything grubby, put some gloves on.”</p><p>The rest of that day, Kelly kept running her hands over her hair. It was lighter, and Margot did a much better job of straightening it than Kelly herself did. She went to dinner feeling a little self-conscious. Peaches and Chloe ignored her, for which she was thankful, because she had no doubt their style sense would not appreciate hers, no matter who had created the look.</p><p>The twins, however, bounded over to her, swinging a teddy bear between them. Kelly was slightly disturbed to note that it was missing both eyes and seemed to have a huge number of messily-sewn-up tears in it.</p><p>“We like your hair,” they chorused, and Kelly smiled down at them. </p><p>“Thank you,” she replied, tugging on one of the four blonde plaits she could see. She wasn’t sure which twin it belonged to. “I like yours too.”</p><p>They looked at each other, and then threw their arms around her waist, and Kelly had the sudden urge to cry, but she wasn’t sure why. </p><p>After that, they sat with her at every meal, and Kelly discovered they knew more about the military’s firepower than Cleaver did. One, Tania, was clearly the doer of the two, while Tara had an analytical mind that reminded her so strongly of Polly it was uncanny.</p>
<hr/><p>Kelly spent the next morning with Theo, who she could barely look at without laughing after Polly’s unfortunate episode stumbling across him and Mike, and who seemed unwilling to leave the campus in case he missed a repeat meeting. She learned, just as Polly had, about probability, in the hopes of applying it to her blackjack theory.</p><p>The twins, who had become scarily adept at finding her very quickly, popped up just after lunch. “Contact, front gates,” they rabbited in stereo, and the impression of Cleaver had Kelly laughing as she hurried after them to the tower. How they’d found it, she’d never know, but they clearly had.</p><p>They all watched as a car trundled down the drive, and a distant figure stepped out. Kelly squinted, but she couldn’t tell from this distance who it was.</p><p>She found out much later, after the twins had gone to bed and she went back up to the dorm. </p><p>“Andrea?” one of the other first years, Kelly’s neighbour, was sitting on her bed, staring blankly across the room. Her hands were twisting together, her mousey hair was lank, and her lip was sore with chewing. “Hey,” Kelly said, sitting beside her.</p><p>Andrea flinched and slid away, hands coming up defensively, and one sleeve slid back, exposing a tubular bandage on her arm.</p><p>Kelly retreated, holding her hands up in surrender. “Sorry,” she said softly. “Didn’t mean to make you jump.”</p><p>Andrea tugged her sleeves over her fingertips and took a big breath. She didn’t reply.</p><p>“I thought you were home for Christmas?”</p><p>“I was. I’m here now,” Andrea replied shortly. </p><p>Kelly considered her for a moment, and then shrugged. “Okay. Well, me too, so if you need anything…”</p><p>Andrea ignored her.</p>
<hr/><p>Christmas Eve brought the first snow of the year and Kelly spent a happy day fighting against the twins, who invented some amazing snowball-firing weapons and used them to great effect. Soaked, cold and breathless, Kelly warmed up in the showers, wincing as her skin reddened and stung in the hot water. It was the most carefree, most childlike, most innocent she’d ever felt, and it was fun.</p><p>Christmas Day was one long party with only a few guests and far too much good food. Kelly watched, pleasantly tipsy, as the twins consumed an impressive amount of liquor for their age and the staff drank more and more, dancing ever more outrageously and provocatively, until finally the bursar passed out and a huge bowl of water was fetched to dip his face into. He came round, spluttering, and Kelly wondered how the school functioned when it was run by these clowns.</p><p>It was the main reason for her ideas, she reflected. Lawlessness and anarchy - for it was utter anarchy - was all very well, but what was the point? There had to be an endgame, surely. And that’s what she was going to provide.</p><p>After Christmas Day, Kelly threw herself into work in earnest. She spent a few happy days at the garage with Pete, and the rest of the time she spent on research; law, and how to break it, mostly. She bounced ideas off the twins, who regularly chorused, “cool, Kel,” or “wicked”, when she mentioned more destructive plans.</p><p>She also found that they were very willing and very capable little spies. She considered that for a moment, and the view from the tower they’d already found.</p><p>“Hey, girls. Are there any other spaces you’ve found, like that tower, that not many other people know about?”</p><p>The twins looked at one another, and Kelly had a feeling there was a silent conversation going on that she wasn’t privy to. Finally, they looked back at her. </p><p>“There’s the trapdoor in the patio,” one began.</p><p>“And the gym under the dining room.”</p><p>“And the laundry room,”</p><p>“And the emergency escape,”</p><p>“And the secret garden,”</p><p>“And the armoury,”</p><p>“And the trapdoor to the cellar.”</p><p>Kelly knew the first two. She raised an eyebrow at the rest.</p><p>The secret garden turned out to be the tennis court, and the laundry room the red brick building next to it, which made the crisscrossing wires washing lines. Kelly filed away the information.</p><p>As for the rest, the twins tugged her happily along corridors and down stairs into the long, useless room that served only as an entrance to the bar.</p><p>It had a false wall.</p><p>Kelly was still getting her head around the fact that it had a false wall when her mind registered the bows and arrows, slingshots, pistols and rifles hidden behind it.</p><p>“It was supposed to be Cleaver’s secret,” Tania told Kelly.</p><p>“But we found it, so she let us add to it,” Tara finished. </p><p>Of course, the twins sniffed out the weapons. Kelly sighed, smiling despite herself. “Okay. One impressive armoury. Now, an escape route and a trapdoor to a cellar,” Kelly said, tousling their hair and hurrying them on before they could indulge their passion and shoot something.</p><p>The trapdoor to the cellar turned out to be in the teachers’ corridor, near the lower school dorms. It let in cold air when the twins twisted it open, and Kelly stared into the inky blackness, getting a funny feeling that it was incredibly deep.</p><p>“What’s down there?” She asked.</p><p>The twins shrugged. “We’ve never been in,” they chorused. </p><p>“But it smells like stale beer, so it’s probably the old bar store,” Tara finished.</p><p>Kelly nodded thoughtfully and leaned carefully down to pull it back up and click it into place. It worried her a little that the door fell inwards, but she couldn’t do a lot about that. Finally, Kelly followed the two dynamos up flight after flight of stairs, and reached the door to her own dorm.</p><p>“You shouldn’t have been up here,” she pointed out.</p><p>The twins looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then turned and walked in as if they owned the place. Kelly just shook her head, smiling, and followed.</p><p>There, under the rugs that covered the wooden floor almost on the bend of the ‘L’,- was a trapdoor, and below it, a pole into a room Kelly had never seen. She watched the twins disappear down it one by one and - careful to keep her knees together - followed them to find a corridor sloping steeply down.</p><p>“Where does it go?”</p><p>“There are exits all the way along,” the twins told her. </p><p>“Basement,”</p><p>“Second floor,”</p><p>“Science floor,”</p><p>“Common room,”</p><p>“Even outside.”</p><p>“We think it used to be a servant’s corridor when a rich family lived here,” they finished together, and Kelly mentally added ‘intelligence’ to their list of assets/weapons. </p><p>It took Kelly days to map the extra parts of the school the twins had shown her. Trying to work out exactly how the areas linked to the rest was a headache. However, the twins loved the idea of a map, and they were desperate to do something to help her. It got Kelly thinking that with their knowledge of the school, and their willingness to spy on people, that perhaps some sort of security system would be worth having. Anarchy was one thing, but if the business plans took off, they didn’t want just anyone walking in. And so she had the twins design their ideal security system. Of course, they were six, so it was full of impossible ideas, imaginary weapons, far too much death, and at a cost most countries wouldn’t turn over in a year, but it was a start, and their minds were magical. Kelly took their plans, promising to consider them carefully, and wondered how easy it would be to implement something.</p>
<hr/><p>In years to come, she’d recognise this first Christmas break as a massive turning point in many lives.</p><p>The twins hung off her for the whole break, and that was the reason she was popular with the lower school in the long-term; it changed the trajectory of the twins’ lives, as they became her most loyal followers, and got involved in every one of her plots.</p><p>Andrea withdrew further and further over the Christmas break, refusing to explain her silence or her sudden reappearance, and Kelly knew better than to press her. Kelly caught her sitting precariously on the ledge of one of the square dorm windows a few days after Christmas, which she had declined to celebrate, and hurried over to grip her upper arm. “If it’s the view you’re after, I can show you a better place to see it from. If you’re planning to slide out there, you can think again,” she’d said sharply, and Andrea’s shock at her classmate’s tone seemed to shake her from her stupor, if not her overall change in mood. The girls hadn’t spoken much before, but Andrea knew Kelly didn’t mix with many people, and Kelly knew Andrea had been quite outgoing before this holiday, and got on well with Taylor, who was definitely a chav-in-training. After hauling Andrea down from the window ledge, Kelly - familiar with the signs from her orphanage days, where she’d observed quietly as one of the older girls spiralled into desolation over being separated from her sister - rolled back her sleeve quietly and gently turned back the bandage, revealing the thin, angry lines she’d expected. Somehow, words weren’t needed, and she’d simply held her, and neither of them spoke of it again, but after that Christmas, Andrea’s fashion became darker, more gothic, and she began to defend the dark group in the corner.</p><p>Kelly herself was free to observe the school she’d been taking such an active part in, and reflect on how damaged everyone within it was. She wondered what, exactly, would possess a parent to send their child here, and realised that not many probably did; these girls all lacked the standard family relationships, just like Kelly did. They all had their own stories, including the staff.</p><p>She noted the power plays between the staff, and recognised - more concretely than her abstract observations of the past - just how unstable Miss Fritton really was. The school was chaotic partly because that was its point, but partly because she was incapable of running it effectively; she was less of an adult, and less mature, than Kelly was, in many ways.</p><p>At the time, her break didn’t seem nearly so momentous as it turned out it was in the long-term, though. </p><p>On the day everyone was due back, Kelly headed to the garage a final time, and Pete couldn’t help but laugh at the enthusiastic, hard-working girl who seemed determined to learn as much as she could about cars for no real reason at all. He let her change three tyres, top up the oil in six cars, and help him with two oil changes, as well as observe a battery and heater plug change on an old diesel he needed to fix. Then he showed her a stripped-back car he was working on, and she walked around and around it, looking at how the metalwork fitted together, how the engine and axel drove the wheels, the VIN and the numberplate, the electrics and the mechanics. She asked more questions than he knew how to answer and he eventually shooed her away, an hour after closing, choosing not to question the fact that she - yet again - was riding a motorbike when she was clearly underage, without a license, uninsured and without a helmet.</p><p>And Kelly, satisfied with what she’d learned and aching to learn more, knew that school would be busy again, and took the scenic route home, pulling into the train station to see if anyone had missed the bus and coming face to face with Polly, exhausted but smiling, standing in the doorway.</p>
<hr/><p>The following term went by in a rush.</p><p>Polly complimented Kelly’s hair and they exchanged a couple of stories from their Christmas break, and then Kelly trundled them both home on the motorbike, suitcase bumping along beside them and Polly’s eyes squeezed tightly closed. It took much longer than Kelly was used to, but they made it by nightfall, and Kelly introduced the twins to Polly, for they were waiting in the entrance hall.</p><p>Both girls slept soundly, and just like the start of the term before, everyone laid in the next morning, and then spent the day preparing for a party. </p><p>Kelly delivered a note to Rhian’s room, and watched from the shadows as Anoushka was summoned, and then left almost as quickly, hurrying to the once-empty room to check on her new brewing equipment. Satisfied that it was up to standard when the Ukranian didn’t reappear, Kelly returned quietly to the dorm, where she worked on the twins’ security plan, adjusting it into the realms of reality and copying it afresh.</p><p>Polly was at a loss for what to do. She’d only just left Oliver, and Kelly seemed to have made progress without her, and the bank account was open; it took her a little while to ground herself back into the (completely unsynchronised) swing of life at St. Trinian’s. <br/>
Eventually, she began formalising her notes on probability and betting, considering it a likely source of income. She also did some research on upcoming productions, and made a note of when and where they were, so the lower school could start on some costumes.</p><p>It was one hell of a party, and during it, Rhian approached, dragging Mike by the hand. “When are you going to get this stuff sorted, little girls?” She slurred, and Mike looked incredibly uncomfortable. “You know we can’t wait forever.”</p><p>Kelly decided she didn’t much like this head girl, who from what she’d seen, had done very little herself and took a lot of credit for other people’s work. Perhaps that was what the role involved at St. Trinian’s, but the attitude reminded Kelly of Jessica, the ringleader of the older girls in the orphanage, who could be a bit of a bully. She took great pleasure in reminding Kelly that she was literally a nobody, and while it hadn’t hurt her - after all, she was right - it angered her that she picked on people so much smaller than herself.</p><p>Polly, too, was thinking about bullies - specifically, the one who’d caused Oliver so many problems. Her hands were clenching into fists at her sides, and she surprised herself and Kelly by speaking first.</p><p>“Well, Rhian, why don’t you take on a few jobs, rather than just blow jobs, hm? I think your boyfriend here has a better offer, anyway.” She jerked her chin at Theo, who had just come in and was staring wistfully at their group.</p><p>Kelly covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile as Rhian opened her mouth and stared, wordlessly. Then she huffed and turned on her heel, marching away.</p><p>Mike drifted off to Theo, utterly ignoring them.</p><p>“Sorry,” Polly murmured, shaking her head. “I’m not sure where that came from.”</p><p>“It was brilliant,” Kelly assured her.</p><p>“Yes, it was.” The girls turned to find JJ behind them. “Look, girls, I’m impressed with what you’re doing. If she causes you any problems, I’d be more than happy to help. And, erm… about your comment… let me get back to you.” She shot them both a dazzling smile and walked away, elegant as a model on a catwalk.</p><p>“What was that about?” Kelly asked, staring after her.</p><p>Polly shrugged, and then dropped her head into her hands. “I can’t believe I just told the head girl she’s a slag,” she murmured.</p><p>Kelly slung an arm over her shoulders. “It was honest,” she pointed out, and steered her out of the party.</p>
<hr/><p>“She was right, though. It’s taking forever,” Polly reasoned the next morning.</p><p>“It has to be airtight, and we’re not in a rush,” Kelly pointed out. </p><p>Polly sighed. “Look, I had a thought about making some fast cash. Once we have some money in the bank, we can invest in some equipment to make more.”</p><p>Kelly raised her eyebrows. “I’m listening.”</p><p>“Betting.”</p><p>Kelly smiled at her. “I thought the same. But we have nothing to secure bets against. If we take a bet and the person making it wins, we can’t pay.”</p><p>Polly sighed. “Unless it’s a sure thing.”</p><p>It was so reminiscent of Kelly’s own thoughts, albeit her research hadn’t led her anywhere, that she stared at Polly.</p><p>“Like what?” She asked finally.</p><p>Polly considered that for a moment, head on one side. “Well, anything really,” she conceded. “Start small. School hockey league, betting on each game’s winner.”</p><p>“Okay… but how is it a sure thing?”</p><p>Polly chewed her lip, thinking. The crease between her eyebrows deepened. “Sabotage the game.”</p><p>Kelly nodded. “Yes, but we can’t control who everyone bets on.”</p><p>“No… but we can control the odds.”</p><p>Kelly lifted one eyebrow. “Don’t change the game… change the pitch.”</p><p>It didn’t take long for a more concrete plan to form, and given the lack of sports fixtures, it wasn’t quite what the girls were planning - but it didn’t matter, really. It was more simple than that.</p><p>With the twins’ help, Kelly had Theo teach the basics of probability and betting odds to the lower school. Whenever his explanations got too complicated, Kelly reworded it for the twins, and they decoded it for their peers. It took two days, but soon, the girls were betting everything from buttons to beanbags on all sorts of occurrences, from odds on Miss Fritton saying ‘girlie’ at dinner (1/3) to odds against rain (50/1). </p><p>And then, with some gentle persuasion in Roxy’s ear, they organised a party, with Mike, some of his boys, and as many local tearaways as the students knew in attendance.</p><p>The lower school wheeled in a chalkboard, and the twins charged a cover of £4 on the door for every non-St. Trinian to walk through it, and Anoushka charged £2 for each drink to every non-St. Trinian to order one, and the guests and staff were soon betting on everything from the next Banned member to stick out their tongue in that typical rockstar fashion, to the next person to leave with a partner (double or nothing if you gambled on both partners), to the first person to pass out.</p><p>The twins thought the whole idea was wonderful.</p>
<hr/><p>“Kelly,” Polly hissed. “Kel.”</p><p>Kelly stirred and blinked. It was still dark. “S’matter?” She mumbled.</p><p>“We made four-hundred and twenty-two pounds, but it’s all in cash, and I don’t know how we can get it online.”</p><p>Kelly stretched, groaning. “Time is it?”</p><p>Polly squinted at the computer screen. “Six forty-two. Sorry,” she admitted sheepishly. “I couldn’t sleep.”</p><p>Breathing in and stretching, Kelly sat up, conscious her hair was wavy and her makeup missing. She felt oddly bare without it - like the girl she grew up being. Like a child.</p><p>“We’ll figure it out,” Kelly promised. “At least we know it works.” And with that, she disappeared to shower.</p><p>The cash remained under the bar, never far from Anoushka’s watchful eye, for much of the term. No more open parties were thrown, and Kelly continued to consider the success and difficulties it had presented. </p><p>Both settled back into their routines, although Polly’s research habits were changing; she was problem-solving determinedly. She also spoke to Oliver much more often. </p><p>Kelly had added her Russian lessons with Anoushka into her timetable, and was finding the girl - albeit brash and brutally honest - a capable teacher for one so young. The lessons had no real structure, in true St. Trinian’s style, and took place wherever Anoushka planned to be that day. Kelly found that she was able to watch the brewing process, as so much of their lessons took place in the once-empty classroom so Anoushka could multi-task, and many of Kelly’s first Russian words were names of chemicals and alcoholic drinks, and elements of the brewing process. Kelly also learned that Anoushka’s father, the diplomat, was a wealthy man, and she was happily ordering the other items she needed to make her drinks through his PA.</p><p>The twins dragged Kelly into as many war games as they could, and she found that her natural ability with hockey sticks and tennis rackets extended to other handheld items - i.e. paintball rifles. Polly, who couldn’t think of anything worse, spent a great deal of time laughing at the colourful splashes of paint the twins targeted her with and the corresponding bruises she gained underneath, and chose not to comment on the increasingly common bruises on her knuckles and the building muscle in her arms and shoulders as her training became an escape from the world around her, and the only place she could think in peace.</p><p>For her part, Polly was daily improving her skills online, and had succeeded in hacking a number of businesses, just to prove she could. The more the weather improved, with blossom on the trees and warmth creeping into the sunshine, the more she hid away from the upcoming Easter season, buried less often in the library and more often in her laptop.</p><p>It took her until the week before the holidays to finish building her own website, which - from what she’d learned by hacking - was as close to foolproof as she could manage.</p><p>Kelly, who was reciting the Russian alphabet under her breath, her fingers tracing shapes in midair, startled as Polly appeared, panting, before her.</p><p>“Zhe, ee, ee kratkoye, ka - ah!” Kelly exclaimed. “Polly!”</p><p>“Sorry, Kel, but it’s done!”</p><p>It was the first time Kelly had seen Polly outside of the dorm or the showers with her hair loose around her shoulders. Her glasses were off, her eyes shining, and a smile stretched her freckles. Kelly realised that she was really quite pretty.</p><p>“Er, what is?” She asked, sidetracked.</p><p>“Come look!” Polly grabbed her wrist and dragged her back up to the dorm. Kelly, heels making this impractical, hopped and hurried along behind her.</p><p>The laptop screen lit up with an impatient tap on the touchpad from Polly, and Kelly stared at the website filling it. The background was clean and white, with video images of sports fixtures lined squarely up all over it, changing odds flashing atop them. Kelly frowned, and her eyes travelled up to a logo in the top corner. A skull wearing a crown, crossed swords beneath it, had an ornamental letter ‘T’ protruding from its eye sockets and nose, and underneath was the title “Trinarmy Betting”.</p><p>Kelly’s jaw dropped.</p><p>“Is this… what…”</p><p>Polly smiled. “It’s not live yet,” she said. “It’s our first…money-maker, I guess.”</p><p>Kelly raised an impatient eyebrow. “Come on then, explain it!” she burst out.</p><p>“Alright, alright!” Polly scooped up the laptop and sat down, patting the mattress beside her. “Look, these games are sorts of sports being played around the world, right now. The site’s set up with a deliberate lag, so it’s always four minutes seventeen seconds behind the live action.”</p><p>“So…people can place bets on who won after they’ve won?” Kelly squinted at the site.</p><p>“Yes,” Polly replied simply. “And I’ve planted tip-offs in a few chat room sites, just whispers of big payouts because of laggy playback, so it should get a lot of traffic.”</p><p>“But, Polly, that’s not going to make us anything!” Kelly pointed out, wondering why Polly looked so pleased with herself.</p><p>“But it is,” she explained patiently. “The odds are all back to front.”</p><p>Kelly frowned and ran a hand through her hair, noting idly that it needed trimming again. </p><p>Polly sighed and clicked on a video of an ice hockey match. “Here, look. The score is 4-1 to Cardiff with six minutes to go. That’s odds on Cardiff beating Nottingham, yeah? So you’d assume that the odds are in the Devils’ favour. Anyone would. You place your bet by clicking on the side of the odds you’re settling for and going through the payment, and out goes the money, into our account. That’s during the game, or during our website’s playback of the game, whichever. And then the playback of the game finishes, and you celebrate your winnings… and find that you bet on the losing team to win, because the odds were back to front.”</p><p>Kelly considered it thoughtfully. “No one will use it more than once,” she pointed out. “Word will soon get out round the betting rings that it’s set up.”</p><p>“Yes,” Polly agreed. “But once we have some money in the bank, we can get rid of the laggy playback element, and start streaming proper bets. I’ve already designed a system to work out the most likely winner of a given fixture based on past meetings, tactics, past performances, current score, team members and time left to play, and to only accept bets in our favour - against the team most likely to win. It won’t be foolproof, but anyone who bets the other way will just get a card declined error message, or a traffic overload message, and if the algorithm works, we’re quids in. We’ll just lose every now and again.”</p><p>Kelly considered this for a moment. “It would need a rebrand,” she pointed out. </p><p>“This is the rebrand, the first release doesn’t have a logo and the background is green, and the layout is different.” Polly shrugged. “Doesn’t look like the same site.”</p><p>“Huh. This could work,” Kelly said, smiling. Then a thought hit her like a steam train. “Could this be adapted in the future so people could gamble against us? Or each other? Like, live games?”</p><p>Polly frowned. “I don’t see why not,” she replied. “I’d have to look into it.”</p><p>Kelly nodded. “Okay. Guess it’s time to show Rhian.” She smiled at Polly. “You did good.”</p><p>The site was live two days later, and chat room messages sprang up one by one all over the internet.</p><p>Polly refreshed the bank account fiendishly and hurriedly reported to Kelly that they’d made over six thousand pounds in the first four hours. It slowed to a trickle, and stopped, three days later, and chat rooms exploded with warnings about the back-to-front odds. Polly took the site offline before any authorities could try to trace it, for she wasn’t completely sure of her ability to stay hidden. </p><p>“It didn’t take long to make a decent amount, though,” Kelly enthused, but Polly was disappointed. She’d hoped it would be able to stay up for longer than that.</p><p>“We should have waited until there was a real big fixture on that everyone wanted to bet on, like an olympic race or world cup football match,” she reasoned, and Kelly could see the logic in that. </p><p>“Well, now we know,” Kelly comforted her. “Come on, lighten up.”</p><p>But Polly couldn’t. The easter season had her analysing her morals, and the bank account weighed heavy on her mind.</p><p>
  <em>Forgive me, lord, for I have sinned. I stole and I repent.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Determined to break Polly from her despondency, Kelly approached Miss Maupassant, addressing her accidentally in Russian before settling hurriedly into a bizarre French-Spanish hybrid.</p><p>She asked whether there was any way to make blackjack a foolproof game.</p><p>Miss Maupassant’s blinding smile told her that she’d asked the one question she’d wanted to be asked for a long time.</p><p>“Enfin! Un esprit creatif!” she opened her arms. Then, she became brusque. “Presque infaillible, presque.”</p><p>Kelly smiled. “I’ll take it.”</p><p>And so another lesson was added to her timetable: the art of counting cards.</p><p>Despite not expecting to want to do too much maths at high school, by her second term, Kelly’s head was exploding with odds - general bets and blackjack odds - and brand new terms like bust, running counts, the shoe, the deck, pluses and minuses. She was often carrying a pack of cards, and would suddenly flip through it at lightning speed, either wooping when she’d reached the end on a round zero or cursing if she was on a plus or minus.</p><p>Her arms were toned and her stomach taut, and her hockey and tennis skills only got better, despite no games ever being played.</p><p>She was on high alert for the twins to come barrelling out of nowhere at any given moment, and the war games had given her lightning-sharp reflexes and an uncanny ability to move with cat-like quiet and grace, even in her heels. And if you took her by surprise, you were never completely sure what language she’d speak to you in.</p>
<hr/><p>Polly’s perceived failure of the website was washed from her mind by the Queen Bees, just two days before the end of term.</p><p>Polly received a summons, through JJ, to the head girl’s dorm, and met Kelly outside, who looked equally mystified. </p><p>JJ reached between them and knocked, pushing the door open and ushering them in.</p><p>“Ah, our little entrepeneurs.” Rhian smiled down at them. She was tall anyway, but with the extra height of her six-inch heels, she towered over them. “Your comment got us thinking, Polly.”</p><p>Reminded of the party, Polly gulped.</p><p>“We all have our strengths, right? Well, that is one of ours. So why not use it to our advantage?”</p><p>Polly looked a little ill. Kelly glanced from her to Rhian to JJ, expressionless.</p><p>“We are in the unique position of being schoolgirls. And schoolgirls, especially in uniform, are popular with men… aren’t we, JJ?”</p><p>Kelly and Polly looked at the glamourous blonde, who smiled wickedly, nodding.</p><p>“So, if you can persuade Mike to part with another phone, and protect it with your technowhizz magic, we have a business venture.”</p><p>Kelly’s mind ran to the posters she’d seen in one of the seedier pubs by the leisure centre. Pictures of barely-dressed girls pulling provocative faces, with phone numbers printed on the bottom.</p><p>“What kind of business venture?” Polly asked innocently, and Kelly shook her head minutely, eyes squeezed shut. For a girl who’d made a comment like she had at that party, she was incredibly innocent sometimes.</p><p>“Pay-to-talk, Polly,” she murmured. “People ring in and they’re charged per minute that they talk to the girls on the other end of the phone.”</p><p>“That seems like very easy money. Why haven’t I heard of it?”</p><p>Kelly sighed as Rhian laughed girlishly. “Oh, Polly, it’s not just a chat they call for. It’s dirty talk.”</p><p>Kelly glanced at Polly out of the corner of her eye. She was pale under her freckles.</p><p>“We’ll work on the phone,” Kelly promised. “It’s a good idea, if you’re willing to do it.” </p><p>She directed the last part at JJ, since she was sure it was her idea, and steered Polly hurriedly from the room.</p><p>“Come on, Pol, it’s a good idea,” Kelly reasoned.</p><p>Polly stopped and turned to her. “Is it?” She answered shakily. “They’re schoolkids, Kelly! Just like us! How young do we start them, hm? How young do men get to go?”</p><p>Kelly chewed the inside of her cheek, keeping her outward expression smooth and neutral. <em>She’s had some sort of experience with this. Not first hand, but something,</em> Kelly thought. “We keep it confined to Queen Bees in their last two years of school,” she suggested. “And it’s personal choice. No pressure.”</p><p>Polly pushed away the echoes of sounds she’d heard from her parents’ room. “No in-person meetings, no videos, no photos showing faces,” she bargained. </p><p><em>Definitely knows more than she’s letting on.</em> Kelly shook the outstretched hand.</p>
<hr/><p>The end of term party, as per usual, was planned for the last night. Polly, given her rollercoaster of a term, seemed determined to try more than just a taste of alcohol, and Kelly was keeping an eye on her. She was also keeping an eye on Andrea, who was knocking back a good amount as well.</p><p>“She has been down here most days,” Anoushka’s thick accent said in Kelly’s ear. “And I do not think she is attracted by Roxy’s music.”</p><p>Kelly scowled. “Soglasen,” she replied, nodding. “I’ll keep an eye, Anoushka, thanks.”</p><p>“I vill be here over the holidays. My vodka is almost ready, and I vould like to try rum too.”</p><p>The words registered slowly. “Blestyashchiy!” She exclaimed when they had. “That’s wonderful!”</p><p>Just then, Polly stumbled over. “Kel, I feel… I feel…”</p><p>“Blyad,” Kelly swore, wrapping an arm around her. Behind the bar, Anoushka laughed and waved them outside.</p><p>This time, Polly was the one puking, and Kelly rubbed her back soothingly.</p>
<hr/><p>The morning was bright with hints of summer, and Kelly revelled in the heat playing through her window. </p><p><em>Oh, my head. God, don’t ever let me drink again. Allaena, ‘ana mughfil… ah</em>. Polly woke slowly.  Her brain came to quicker than the rest of her, and her mental inventory wasn’t pleasant.</p><p>She must have shifted, or changed her breathing pattern, because a low chuckle sounded from her right.</p><p>“Morning, pisshead,” Kelly joked cheerfully. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>“Alqarf,” Polly groaned.</p><p>Kelly blinked. “Er… was that ‘fuck off’, or some casual Arabic?”</p><p>Polly cracked one eye open. “I learned a bit and looked up all the rude words in the dictionary,” she groaned, and Kelly grinned.</p><p>“Alright, thamin, up we get. It will get worse before it gets better, but it won’t change unless you move.”</p><p>Polly felt only slightly more human by the time Kelly had shoved her through the shower and forced some toast down her. The only thing that did make her smile was that she was going home.</p><p>She was on a train by three in the afternoon, and was forcing her sluggish brain to consider how she was going to blag a ticket this time. In the end, though, she didn’t need to. The conductor, it seemed, didn’t have the heart to wake her up to ask for her ticket, and she slept all the way to Newark, waking in a panic that she’d missed her stop. She climbed off the train twenty minutes later, suitcase in tow, feeling much better.</p><p>The easter holidays passed slowly. Every chime and ring of the Cathedral bell cut through her, and the Walk of Witness passed right under Oliver’s flat window, daring her to look and get drawn into the nostalgia of it all.</p><p>Oliver’s easter holiday didn’t match up with hers, and she only saw him in the evenings for the first week. She kept herself busy around the flat, doing as much as she could to help his mother out, for she had weakened considerably in the few months since Christmas.</p><p>“I’ll rally, my girl, I always do, and if I don’t, I know you’ll look after my Ollie for me, won’t you? I don’t need to be at your wedding to know it’s my boy you’ll marry.”</p><p>Polly trembled, for the words that were supposed to bring comfort seemed to her to be the words of someone who knew she was dying.</p><p>On Oliver’s last day at school, his mother begged Polly to have a day out and enjoy herself. “You seem more withdrawn than usual, my girl. Go and find your mojo.”</p><p>Polly did as she was bid, and pulled the door closed behind her, turning her face away from the sun. Up the hill was her old house. She couldn’t think of it as home any more, but the cathedral loomed above her, casting a city-wide shadow. Down the hill, her old school, and the library. It was a simple choice, in the end. Her pockets were bulging, as if she’d known before she’d left.</p><p>Polly kept her head down as she walked quietly through the reception and atrium, escaping the notice of the front desk staff. </p><p>It was three minutes to lunch time, and she squinted through the door to her old Arabic room, still set up with its musical instruments for the private lessons some parents paid for. For a world-tilting moment, Polly could feel the cool metal of her flute in her hands. It was the closest she’d ever come to missing it. As the feeling faded, her eyes fell on the figure sat inside, white tunic in place as ever, eyes closed and lips moving. Her mouth curved into a grin and she waited respectfully until he’d finished.</p><p>Then she knocked, letting herself in and laying a hand over her chest, bowing slightly.</p><p>“As-salamu alaykum, Javid,” she said quietly.</p><p>“Polly?” He exclaimed, standing. He calmed hurriedly, mirroring her. “Asif, asif… Wa’alaykumu as-salam.” He dropped his hand and stared at her. “It’s really you,” he said, full of wonder, and she smiled shyly.</p><p>“I’m sorry I disappeared,” she said, suddenly close to tears. “And I’m sorry I didn’t write.”</p><p>He shook his head and opened his arms, gathering her into a hug. “You’ve grown, halu. You’ve grown.”</p><p>Polly clung to him, and she thought he meant mentally, as well as physically, for she felt years older now than the last time she’d seen him.</p><p>“I hope I did not cause the problems that made you leave?” He asked, letting her go and patting a chair.</p><p>“Eurbaa was the final straw,” Polly admitted, “but no. There were much bigger issues.”</p><p>Javid frowned. “And how are you now?”</p><p>“Well. My new school gives me freedom to make mistakes and learn from them my way.” Polly didn’t realise the truth in her words until she said them, and suddenly, the betting site seemed like a distant memory. <em>That is a mistake I won’t make again, because I don’t want to, not because my father knocked me about for it,</em> she realised. She smiled sunnily at him, and asked, “Wa’ant aydaan?”</p><p>He gently corrected her pronunciation. “I am well, thank you. My students are not as enthusiastic as you were, though.”</p><p>“Am,” Polly corrected. She pulled the stack of letters from her pocket. “They’re a little travel worn, but… I didn’t have any stamps.”</p><p>Javid took them reverently. “Shukraan, Polly. I’ll reply to every single one,” he promised. </p><p>The following week was better. Her talk with Javid had reset her perspective, and many of the Easter celebrations were over, so Polly spent all her time humming cheerfully and spending time with Oliver and his mother. She even met some of his school friends for one of their birthdays, and spent half a day charging around a park, climbing and swinging like any normal kid. Oliver chattered to her about the grammar school he would be attending from September and his results in the entry exam, and she enthused with him about everything from the school’s curriculum to its uniform, excited that he was excited. </p><p>It was carefree, and Polly realised that she’d needed this break from St. Trinian’s. For the first time, she pitied Kelly staying. </p><p>This time, she arrived at the station in time for the return bus, and travelled back to school feeling both refreshed and full of trepidation. </p>
<hr/><p>Kelly’s Easter had been busier. She found that Andrea, Anoushka and the twins were the only others to stay, and she volunteered the twins to help Anoushka with setting up for the rum experiments. They’d proven themselves to have a flair for mixing things - granted, usually with the aim of wreaking destruction - and a passion for the science lab, and were surprisingly accurate for their age.</p><p>In the meantime, she cornered Andrea, who had withdrawn into a silent shell. “Don’t talk, just listen,” she’d advised. “I don’t know what happened to you, but I know something did, and you’re clearly not dealing with it. And I know you’ve been defending the emos, which tells me you’ve taken an interest in them, whether for their look or their lifestyle or both I don’t know. So I’m telling you now that I’m about to go see an ex-St. Trinian for a haircut, and she knows about the tribes, and she can get you a look if you want it. So think about it, and if you’re in, I’ll see you out the front in half an hour. If not, try pulling your head out your arse, because you’re not the only one with issues.”</p><p>She’d turned away when she’d finished, wondering if she’d been a bit strong. Andrea was clearly struggling with something.</p><p>Half an hour later, though, she met her outside the front of the school, and figured it must have been alright.</p><p>Margot had taken one look at Andrea’s mousey hair and dour expression and told her to pick some clothes that spoke to her. Andrea had come back with black and purple items, long sleeves, and chains, to which Margot had nodded like she’d won a bet. “This is bigger than my house. We need to go into town,” she announced. </p><p>And so they had. Kelly, hair trimmed and neat once more, sat in the front passenger seat of Margot’s mini, her hand drawing patterns in the air that whooshed past the window and humming along to the radio. Her eyes strayed now and then to the rear view mirror, which showed Andrea slumped in the backseat, picking at a hole in her tights.</p><p>‘Town’ turned out to be significantly-sized, with more than one street of shops and restaurants and an indoor shopping centre. Kelly trailed Margot and Andrea around various clothing shops, watching as she tried on all sorts of styles of clothing, and wandering between the shelves to look more closely at items that took her fancy. It turned out that Andrea had quite a lot of money, or at least, someone in her family did. She was using a card to pay for everything, and she bought quite a few pairs of trousers, plenty of long-sleeved tops, some fingerless gloves, and various metal accessories. Kelly glanced wistfully at a skirt she’d love to try, and followed the girls and their bags out.</p><p>Andrea came to a stop outside a tattoo and piercing parlour, and Margot laughed.</p><p>“I know this guy. Shane. He’s good, and he won’t mind your age, but don’t forget it’s permanent,” Margot cautioned. Andrea tentatively touched her fingers to her nose, then squared her shoulders and strode in. Margot caught Kelly’s eye and smiled wickedly at her.</p><p>The piercings didn’t grab Kelly like they clearly did Andrea, but the shop fascinated her. It was full of odd bits of jewellery, and catalogues of tattoo designs open at random pages taunted her.</p><p>“Something take your fancy?”</p><p>Kelly startled. It was the first time she’d heard Andrea’s voice in weeks. She turned, and a silver hoop though the girl’s nose was glinting, shiny and new. Surprisingly, it suited her, and Kelly told her so. She smiled, and again, Kelly wondered when she’d last seen it.</p><p>Andrea repeated her question, and Kelly shrugged. “Maybe,” she hedged, casting a glance at the tattoo book again. </p><p>“Which one?” Andrea stepped forward again.</p><p>Self-consciously, Kelly pointed at the angel wing. It was a single wing, and Kelly liked the symbolism of it - it was as much for someone fallen as an angel, and it was alone, without an angel or a fellow wing. It represented her, in many ways. And it reminded her of Polly.</p><p>Andrea considered it, head on one side. “It’s a simple enough design,” she allowed. </p><p>Margot appeared behind her. “It is,” she agreed. “Fifteen minutes, I reckon, at that size.”</p><p>“You want it?” Andrea asked.</p><p>Kelly stared at them both. “One day,” she replied uneasily. Their different characters seemed bizarrely complimentary.</p><p>“If you want to get it now, I’ll pay,” Andrea told her. “I owe you for this.”</p><p>Kelly frowned at her. “You don’t owe me anything, and I’m not a charity case.”</p><p>Margot sighed. “Kelly, think about how your time at St. Trinian’s might have been if you hadn’t come to me first.”</p><p>Kelly did. Then she looked up at Margot, and across to Andrea.</p><p>She nodded. “Okay. Thank you,” she said, and Margot disappeared to call the artist across.</p><p>Andrea smiled tentatively at her, and Kelly smiled back, and followed Margot around the screen.</p>
<hr/><p>Kelly’s tattoo throbbed with every beat of her heart. It hadn’t been nearly as painful as she’d expected going on, but now the thin skin behind her ear pulsed with her blood, and itched when her hair tickled it, and she gritted her teeth against the temptation to scratch it. They were back at Margot’s, and Andrea was twiddling her nose ring, hair in foils. Margot kept gently slapping her hand away to finish her make up, and it would creep back.</p><p>It took longer than any of Kelly’s cuts ever had, but she supposed she’d never be able to dye hers, given it was almost jet black by itself. Andrea’s light brown would probably take any colour.</p><p>Finally, Margot’s efforts and detailed tutorials were revealed. Andrea’s hair fell down her back in blue-black waves shot through with purple, and there was a shorter section at the top that gave it a wild, messy quality. It worked well with the nose ring. Andrea’s fingernails were midnight black, and her face paler with powder, with dark pinks above and below her eyes and heavy black liner extending beyond her eyelids in artful curves.</p><p>It was completely not to Kelly’s taste, and Andrea looked so completely different… but it somehow suited her.</p><p>“You have a gift, Margot,” Kelly admitted. Andrea caught her eye in the mirror and grinned.</p>
<hr/><p>The rest of Kelly’s easter was spent practicing her card counting, practicing her languages, learning more about cars, and - when the side of her head stopped pounding - training hard. She also spent time with the twins, and assured them that she was working on their security plans.</p><p>As the weather improved, Kelly found herself spending more and more time outside. The old hangar-like building kept pulling her in, and she couldn’t help making plans for it, even as it creaked dangerously above her when the breeze gusted past.</p><p>Three days before term was due to restart, Anoushka beckoned her into the brewing room and handed her two glasses, both containing a finger of clear liquid.</p><p>“Am I your first human test?” She asked worriedly, flinching at the burning in her nose just from smelling them.</p><p>“<em>Net</em>. I have tested both.”</p><p>Kelly wasn’t sure how much confidence that filled her with, but she took a tentative sip of the strongest-smelling anyway.</p><p>She choked and whistled. “What percentage is that?” She asked, coughing. </p><p>Anoushka shrugged. “Around 150 proof… maybe seventy-two,” she guessed. Kelly nodded, eyes watering. </p><p>The other glass smelled fruitier, earthier. Kelly sipped it even more cautiously, but it slid down surprisingly smoothly. It burnt, but it burned with flavour - perhaps butterscotch, or one of those Christmas spices. </p><p>“That one is maybe forty-two,” Anoushka explained. </p><p>“This one is really nice,” Kelly told her, taking another sip. “The other one just hurts, but I imagine that’s the idea.”</p><p>“<em>Da</em>. I think we may be ready to bottle a batch of each,” Anoushka told her, taking both glasses back. </p><p>A slow smile that had nothing - or at least, mostly nothing - to do with the alcohol spread over Kelly’s face.</p>
<hr/><p>At the back-to-school party, Kelly intercepted Mike and beckoned him outside. Polly, who’d learned of the brewing success only hours before, when she’d tumbled off the bus in a crowd of students in into a waiting Kelly, followed them both.</p><p>Kelly led the way to the spiral staircase to the dining room and sat herself comfortably on the seventh step. Mike leaned on the central pillar and stared curiously at her. Polly studiously avoided looking at him.</p><p>“We have vodka and rum brewed and ready to sell as soon as we’ve sourced packaging,” Kelly announced. “But we’re going to need another phone.”</p><p>Mike’s eyebrows twitched. “I don’t think so. This investment hasn’t gotten me anywhere yet.”</p><p>Kelly pursed her lips. “Yet,” she repeated. “You’re welcome to try the brews. Don’t forget you’ll be taking a significant cut when it sells. We just need another phone, and it will happen.”</p><p>Polly was bursting with questions, but she held them in.</p><p>“Alright. One phone. I’ll find it. Where exactly can I try these brews?”</p><p>“At the bar. Ask the girl with the Russian accent.”</p><p>Once he’d gone, Polly hissed, “What cut is he taking?”</p><p>Kelly shrugged. “I don’t know, but it was part of the deal in the first place. Rhian’s organised it all. But he doesn’t need to know about some of the stuff we’ve got going on on the side, does he?”</p><p>Polly stared at her. She didn’t know what to say to that, so she changed the subject. “Is, er… is Andrea alright?”</p><p>Kelly didn’t immediately understand the question, but then she laughed. “Oh yes, she’s doing much better,” she replied, and tapped her nose. </p>
<hr/><p>The morning after the party brought an unexpected guest, and Kelly - rising early as usual - was in the entrance hall to see him arrive, taking in the aftermath of the party and Beverley’s snoring, dribbling figure with distaste. She ducked out of sight and waited, holding her breath, to see what would happen.</p><p><em>This is why we need a security system,</em> she thought. <em>None of the staff can hold it together, so people dropping in like this could close the place down.</em></p><p>After some throat clearing and bell ringing, the man shook Beverley by the shoulder. She let out a snore, then a groan, and Kelly winced sympathetically at the thought of the hangover she was probably suffering with.</p><p>“Oh, ‘eyup, y’alright?” her accent rang out in the still morning air.</p><p>“Good morning,” he replied stiffly. “I’m Ben Anster, I’m a student teacher on placement here for the next eight weeks.”</p><p>Kelly pressed her lips together. <em>What a placement,</em> she thought.</p><p>“Ooh, we weren’t expecting anyone…” there was a squeal as Beverley tapped at the intercom. “Miss Fritton, some student’s ‘ere to teach!” She called into it.</p><p>“Kindly fuck off, Beverley, or I may vomit on you,” Camilla’s posh and dulcet tones, laden with sleep, responded through the intercom.</p><p>“Sorry ‘bout that, it was a wild one las’ night, if you know what I mean,” Beverley hedged. “Erm… why don’t I show you to the staff room?”</p><p>Kelly darted out of sight down the stairs at that, holding in her laughter.</p><p>She wasn’t sure how long he’d last, but she was willing to bet it wouldn’t be eight weeks.</p>
<hr/><p>Polly woke full of steely determination. She was going to find a way to contribute to the money-making scheme, and drag this school into the computer age, if it was the last thing she did.</p><p>She found Kelly sat on her bad with a towel wrapped around her head, deep in thought.</p><p>“Er… Kel?”</p><p>She looked up. “Oh, morning Pol.”</p><p>Polly frowned. “O-kay, what’s up?”</p><p>Kelly scowled. “Some student teacher turned up this morning. Like, earlier than normal school time. It got me thinking, we really need that security system, because this place is a mess and if he were anyone else but a student teacher…”</p><p>“We’d be screwed,” Polly finished. “Mm.”</p><p>The girls sat in companionable silence, listening to the melody of snores around them.</p><p>“I think I can make what we have bigger,” Polly finally admitted. “On the stock exchange. But I’ll have to be online the moment they open.”</p><p>Kelly studied her face for a moment. “Day trading?”</p><p>“Yeah. Y’know, just… a bit. Nothing mega risky.”</p><p>“I read about it. It seemed too complicated, but… if you think you can pull it off, do it.”</p><p>Polly bit her lip and nodded. “I’ll start small, get a feel for it.”</p><p>“Right. Good.” Kelly tugged the towel loose from her hair and it settled, wavy and tousled, around her head. “What do you know about card counting?”</p><p>“A bit,” Polly admitted. “I read up when you started. But I haven’t done any myself.”</p><p>“Online casinos?”</p><p>Polly shook her head. “There are too many decks that aren’t used,” she said. “The penetration variable is massive.”</p><p>Kelly smirked, and after a moment, Polly caught her expression and they both dissolved into giggles.</p><p>“Alright,” Kelly breathed when they’d both calmed down, “I’ll speak to Miss Maupassant about a real casino situation.” She absent-mindedly reached for her hairbrush. “And that phone should be arriving soon for the Queen Bees.” She stared unseeingly at the wall. “With the alcohol too, it’s looking promising, Pol.” </p><p>And Kelly was absolutely right. The rest of the year went by more quickly than either of them could have imagined. Before they knew it, Polly was on the train home for six weeks, and Kelly had the run of the school and the surrounding town. Both of them thought they had the best end of the deal.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Business Minded</h2></a>
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    <p>And so the years passed. Everyone found their place, and contributed somehow. </p><p>Anoushka's home brews were selling faster than she could make them, with pre-orders two terms in advance always in place; Kelly decided that the base of operations needed to move somewhere bigger, and that's where the old stable block came in. Mike, seeing the pounds rolling in, paid for the braces to hold it up; and Anoushka's production tripled overnight. The old set up in the classroom became the research and testing lab. </p><p>The other half of the garage became an engineering workshop, allowing the girls to learn from Kelly how to do the basics, and from other sources how to completely change a car's appearance. There were numberplates stacked in corners, various colours of paint being mixed throughout the smaller rooms, and jacks and a rolling road set up in the centre, so miles could be added on or taken off, and wheels could be changed. Any car that appeared in the grounds left as an entirely different vehicle - and it paid very well.</p><p>The Queen Bees rebranded as Posh Totty for their chatline, and it took off in a matter of days. Mike provided them a phone each, and eventually doubled up, for the girls could usually hold two conversations at once - a phone to each ear - since most of what they said would satisfy all of their customers. Anyone who wanted a more personal touch paid more; the phones set up for that were held exclusively by Rhian, and after she left, JJ. </p><p>The twins set up booby traps all the way up the drive and there was a rota for lookouts; Kelly had falsely summoned two taxis from a few towns over to test their security measures. Both had made it less than half way up the driveway before turning back, now coated in paint and eggs. It was a work in progress, but it was certainly progress. </p><p>When they weren't terrorising visitors, the twins had taken to developing fireworks - and two of the sheds had suffered for it. Ultimately, though, their pyrotechnic genius was being exploited by professional firework companies, locals wanting a garden display, and international arms dealers alike. </p><p>Taylor developed her own lines of sanitary products, sold mostly to dealers looking for a way to smuggle their products across the borders. They were luxury and usable, though, and some celebrities ordered in bulk. </p><p>Speaking of celebrities... Posh Totty's business took another turn when a royal called in, and they realised how many government ministers and politicians they might have already missed. The chatline did advertise its security, after all. And so began Chelsea's research into tracing calls, and ultimately, blackmail and extortion - only of the rich ones who could afford it, of course. Polly checked. Either way, it was a real money spinner.</p><p>Andrea - inspired by Taylor's success, and now fully integrated into the emo tribe - created her own make-up line. It was perfect for anyone who followed their fashion, and Kelly eventually persuaded them to include some other colours and thinner options too; she was their first customer for red lipstick, which - to Andrea's chagrin - ended up outselling black. </p><p>Polly's prowess in day trading was developing daily, and she gradually branched into larger markets, until the offshore account had a healthy amount sitting innocently within it. After a quiet discussion, she and Kelly took a small amount from the account - "We did say it would be for students, after all," Polly pointed out - and invested it as their own. Polly's account grew steadily, so she could afford the train fare home for summer and pay for her board at Ollie's. Kelly's, in a new account Polly opened for her, grew just as steadily, and she watched it detachedly, wondering what to do with it.</p><p>Eventually, Mike - after a close call while carrying some of the twins' definitely-illegal rockets, and desperate to follow Rhian to America - called it a day. For a while, they got on just fine without a fence - until Celia, using her family connections, provided another avenue of business: fake IDs. </p><p>Kelly, still helping at the garage purely for fun, finally found them another fence by flirting with Flash Harry when he brought his ancient car in. The very same day, she bought herself a longer skirt and started wearing her top two buttons undone - for his eyes had certainly appreciated her through her overalls. Clearly, it was time. </p><p>And so it went. Polly spent all of her holidays with Ollie and his mum, able to pay her way more and more effectively every time she visited; Ollie's mum stayed just as sick, and Ollie stayed just as positive. He learned not to ask too many questions about what went on at Polly's school, and quietly accepted the money she gave him.</p><p>When she was at school, she threw herself into learning and day trading and betting, and accidentally developed a band of followers as she taught what she'd learned to others, inadvertently creating a new tribe - the nerds. They had revolutionised the school's technology beyond recognition, and the poor bursar had no idea how they'd managed it. </p><p>She and Kelly took breaks from their respective timetables by practicing Arabic together; Polly's letters to Javid were more and more fluent and Kelly's writing was developing equally well. Her French and Spanish were almost native, and her Russian edged closer to fluent with every trip to the bar or the brewery. </p><p>Kelly spent her holidays at St. Trinian's, training, moving things around, and developing ideas for the coming year - and avoiding Flash, for he seemed as fond of her as Mike was of Rhian, excepting the Theo incident. In three years, she had come to know everyone, including the staff, and felt that all the secrets of the school were hers. </p><p>That third summer, she found that her own account had grown enough to buy outright a very cheap flat in the very cheap town where she'd got her tattoo, using one of the many fake IDs she'd skimmed from the school business. It took very little broken English with a strong Russian accent over the phone to convince the conveyancers not to ask too many questions - and the first thing she did once she had her keys was buy a piano. Two years later, and still (probably) too young, she used one of her fake driving licenses and her address to buy her first car.</p><p>The school was exactly what both girls had hoped for - freedom to learn, make mistakes, and develop. Sure, it didn't get you qualifications - but it got them what they needed to get on in life. (And anyway, the fake ID business could get them GCSE certificates in any subject imaginable. Why sit an exam if you didn't need to?)</p>
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